


saved from something like regret

by finaljoy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Artist AU, Con Artists, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Healthy Relationships, Mild Language, Past Child Abuse, Romance, Slow Romance, but natasha's not better, clint barton is a heaving mess, moderately dysfunctional families all around, not much theft for a story about two thieves, other avengers receive mentions and cameos but not much, this is so cute i'm not used to it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 09:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 51,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1894329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finaljoy/pseuds/finaljoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha painted and framed pictures, and Clint did whatever to make ends meet. They were just normal people. Except for the fact that sometimes he picked locks and broke into businesses. And she definitely maybe was a retired con artist with a bounty set on her head by her unforgiving mentor and uncle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. more than meets the eye

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't overwhelmingly angsty. I don't actually know what to do.
> 
> Just consider this the second installment in my unofficial project of AUs were Clint and Natasha are broken people shuffling along and meet each other, and become a little less broken after some hard work and tender loving care :'D

When she first met him, he was soaked.

Well, not  _soaked,_  but wet enough to make him more than unwelcome in her home. Clint Barton had barreled into Natasha Romanoff's life with a huff of smoke and a few too many drips in her door way, and at first, Natasha would have been more than happy to see him leave it just as quickly.

"I'm here to pick up a painting for Barney Barton," he panted, leaning against the wall. Natasha glanced him over, but refused to open her door beyond the unfriendly inch she had already allowed. He kept wiping his hair out of his face, as the water clinging to the strands kept weighing them down into his eyes. She could smell cigarettes every time he exhaled, which was more often that she'd like, as he was slightly out of breath, presumably to get out of the rainstorm outside.

Natasha didn't  _like c_ igarettes. She had tried them when she was fifteen, decided they were for idiots with nothing better to do, and moved on. Plus cigarette smoke ruined paintings, an act she could barely stand.

"I haven't framed anything for someone named 'Barney' all month," she said. In all honesty, she knew who he was talking about (the exact painting was on her desk, about fifteen feet away from her), but in the thirty seconds she had known him, Clint Barton hadn't endeared himself to her. She could be difficult and not feel guilty.

"Right. How 'bout Bernard?"

Natasha hesitated, then opened her door further. She didn't exactly  _want_ him dripping in her apartment, as he would then be  _her_  problem, but she did want to follow through on her job.

Natasha walked back to her desk, picked up the painting, then returned it to Clint.

"Here," she grunted, holding the painting out to him. He took it absently, craning his neck to see further into her apartment. This, though a little rude, was not wholly unexpected.

"You...frame all of these?" he asked, nodding at the myriad of paintings covering her walls. Natasha glanced back at them, and sighed.

"Only the ones I painted. The rest are originals from other artists, and came pre-framed. Do you have a car?"

"What, you painted some of—sorry?"

"I said,  _do you have a car_?"

"Uhm, no, not here. Why?"

"Because I am  _not_  letting that painting out into the rain. Not when it did  _that_  to you."

"But it's just a squall, I mean, it could be gone by the time I'm outside." Clint glanced down at himself as he spoke, a small frown on his face as if wondering if he was really that much of a mess.

"And it could also go on for much longer. This painting doesn't leave until the rain stops."

Admittedly, the painting that Bernard Barton had had her frame wasn't the most expensive piece that had passed through her hands (it also was not the most expensive piece she had been asked to frame), but it was the principle that counted. Someone had taken the time to make that piece, and moreover, this Bernard person had spent both time and money in not only picking it out, but also having it framed. She would give it the respect it deserved. Natasha certainly knew that she would have a fit if someone wantonly traipsed through the rain with one of her paintings.

"So...I have to stay, too." Clint had this wrinkle in his brow that wasn't quite displeased or confused, but more along the lines of mapping out the rest of his evening according to this setback. After a short pause, he nodded, and gave her a smile. Natasha had to admit, despite the cigarette breath and wet clothing, his easy manner was growing on her. A little.

"If you want," Natasha said, shrugging and turning back to the main room. "In either event, close the door behind you."

Clint chuckled and gave a soft "Yes, ma'am..." as he shut the door. He set the painting down by her coat rack, then stood still. She didn't really want him there, nosing about and getting her carpet wet, but the weather wasn't his fault. She suppressed yet another sigh, and walked to her linen closet. Natasha returned with a towel, and found that Clint had politely stayed in place to limit the amount of water he spread around. Natasha barely kept herself from cocking an eyebrow as his manners mounted in his favor. Okay. She still didn't want him there, but she would also be able to do more than tolerate him.

"There's a heater around the corner," she said, gesturing. "Take your shoes off if you want to stand in front of it."

Natasha walked back to her work desk, and settled back into place. She ignored the sound of him drying off, then settled into her rhythm of painting.

"You've got a lot of really gorgeous pieces in here," Clint said. He sounded like he was in the living room, and Natasha tried to ignore the intense feeling of discomfort she felt when strangers wandered through her home.

"Thank you. It's difficult to work with such lovely things and not indulge yourself here or there."

"Ha, I know that well enough. Though, I can't really say my  _indulgences_ , as you put it, are that innocent. Or cultured." Clint appeared around the wall separating her dining room/acting studio and living room. She watched him, and couldn't help crack a smile. After years of living and interacting with narcissists and megalomaniacs, a little bit of self deprecations was appreciated. She watched him for a moment, then turned back to her work.

"You mentioned that you've painted some of these...could you point out some of them?"

Clint had wandered over to her left, though he was still a good ways back. Natasha shrugged, and gestured over to the wall to the side.

"Some of those hanging on the wall, and all but the front few on the ground."

Clint moved towards the paintings, and after a moment, gave a soft  _"Huh"._

Natasha couldn't help herself. She had to turn.

"Do you not believe me?" she asked, cracking the tiniest of smiles. Clint shrugged and shook his head, and said "No, I totally believe you, I just...well, I didn't know what to expect when I saw that painting, there." Clint pointed at one of the front paintings on the ground. It was stacked up in a neat row, waiting to be framed with the rest of the canvasses. There were a couple of smaller pieces in front of it, but delicate mounds of snow set against a flat blue sky were unmistakable.

Natasha paused, feeling a shriek of shock spring up her spine. All the beginnings of amiable feelings that had sprouted inside her immediately withered as suspicion took over. Natasha set down her brush and gave him a blank look. It was  _The Road of the War Prisoners_ by Vasily Vereshchagin _,_  a beautiful thing full of ice and death.

"You know Russian realists?"

"Not really. I took my brother's kid over to the Brooklyn Museum on a field trip last week, and I could have sworn I saw this picture."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hm. I only noticed it because right beside it, there was this painting commissioned by the government with a happy family and tons of symbolism about how great the place was, y'know. And then there was this..." he tailed off, gesturing vaguely at the painting. She completely understood. The starkness of the painting was part of her attraction to it.  _The Road of War Prisoners_ depicted the Turkish prisoners of war taken by the Russians during the Russo-Turkish War. The picture was fairly simple, with frozen bodies idly scattered around the bottom of the canvas, as if an afterthought in the painting. The death in it was stark and unimpressive, showing the true gracelessness that people held when their lives had fled.

Natasha took a breath, and tried to stuff away all of the wanton panic inside of her. Clint Barton, as far as she could tell, was just a person. There was no reason for her to lose her head and jump to atrocious conclusions, like maybe he had been sent to find her and he had finally done it and now she was either going to end up in prison for a very long time or cut up into ruthless little pieces and sprinkled over the Hudson for an even longer time. If this was some perverse, unexpected game of cat and mouse, he wouldn't be wearing such a pleasant expression of mild surprise.

"Well, Mr. Barton, I'm afraid that I don't have anywhere near enough to tempt a museum to give up one of their pieces."

She gave him a frosty smile, making it clear that she did not appreciate the veiled accusation of art theft. Clint's still warm smile was unfazed, and he tipped his head at the window.

"Rain's stopped. Am I allowed to leave with the picture, now?"

"Of course," she said breezily, sliding off her stool.

"Oh, and could I get one of your business cards? My brother said he lost his, and he wanted one for his friend."

"Absolutely," Natasha grit out, stalking over to her desk. This was so  _stupid._  One man, one stupid, drenched,  _art illiterate man_  had stumbled into her home, and rattled her cage with a few throw away comments. She still didn't like turning her back on him now, though. Even though she was  _fairly_ sure that he wasn't going to yank out a knife and drive it between her ribs, she hated feeling so exposed.

She grabbed the card, and turned around to face him. He thanked her, picked up the painting, and turned to the door.

"Thank you for allowing me into your home," he said.

"Not at all," she said, in way of  _go away and never come back._

Of course, he tossed a cheery wave over his shoulder, which she promptly slammed the door on.

_What an asshole,_  she thought, leaning against the door. She listened to him walk away, then she pushed herself up. He wasn't with the police, and he wasn't looking for vengeance for her uncle, else he would have jumped the moment he saw the painting. Unless either party were removed. Or  _both-_

No.  _No._  Natasha's paranoia was running away with her, there was no way her uncle would work with  _anyone_  with a badge, at least, not a legal or authentic one. But she still had to think of what to do next. Did she pack her bags and disappear before it became dark, or did she wait and see what turned up? Natasha had already vanished herself once, and she didn't exactly want to do it again.

She sighed, then walked over to the towel to wipe up whatever remnants of water Clint had left behind. She worked her way back to the door, then straightened.

There was something scrawled on the notepad on the decorative shelf, the handwriting not her own. She blinked, then felt a sudden wave of anger as she realized that Clint had distracted her with the business card to  _write down his number._  What an  _asshole_.

She tore off the page and threw it down on her counter as she passed. Natasha stalked back to her laundry basket, sullenly thinking that water hadn't been the only thing dripping off of Clint Barton. Clint's charisma had been almost as apparent as his good manners or terrible habit of smoking. Hopefully, when he eventually butted back into her life (because he would and with absolutely no shame, she could tell), Natasha just hoped that it wouldn't be accompanied with the swift hands of vengeance or the law.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Road of the War Prisoners: http://uploads2.wikiart.org/images/vasily-vereshchagin/road-of-the-war-prisoners-1879.jpg


	2. well worth the risk

It took four days, but Natasha did contact Clint. Of course, she had to jump through a few hoops of her own making first, but that wasn't anything new.

First, Natasha had to decide if she really  _did_  need to skip town. She left her apartment not long after Clint left, and made sure to keep an eye out for anyone tailing her. When she came up with nothing, she let herself return home, brooded on how exactly Clint had rumbled her, and went to sleep. The next day, she moved the painting the hell out of her apartment, and stopped by an old acquaintance's place. After a little bit of sweet talking and coercing, she managed to get him to drop by. He came to her apartment the day after that, quietly searched for any bugs that might have been planted, and after exchanging a bottle of wine, taxi fare, and thanks, Natasha was left with the certainty that Clint was not anything out of the ordinary. Except for the fact that he had guessed correctly that she had a stolen piece of artwork sitting casually in her dining room.

That left one whole day of her alternating between pointedly ignoring and pointedly staring at the slightly crumpled piece of paper on her counter. It had not been touched since she had dropped it there, and since it had resisted all of her efforts to make it spontaneously combust via glaring at it, she supposed that she might as well call.

She grabbed up her phone, stabbed in the numbers, and waited for him to pick up. She had no idea what she was going to say, or how she was going to justify it to herself or to him, but she was doing it, she was doing it  _oh hell_  why was she doing it—

"Hello?"

Natasha blinked at the sound of a boy's voice on the other side of the phone. She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it, as if that would help her figure things out, then quickly answered. Had Clint somehow given her the wrong number? Had she punched it in wrong? As hilariously embarrassing that would be for either party, Natasha somehow doubted it.

"Hello. Is Clint Barton available?"

"Mm-hm, one sec.  _Clint, phone's for you!_ " The last bit was little muffled, like the kid was craning his head away from the phone and half shouting for the man. There was a pause, in which Natasha could hear someone she guessed was Clint grumble " _Holy hell, kid, told you to leave my phone alone_ ," before Clint came on the line.

"Hello?"

"Hello."

"Oh, hi," Clint said. Natasha closed her eyes and tried not to feel a little rankled that he recognized her voice right away. At least that spared them an awkward introduction.

"Hello," she repeated, then started cursing herself. Where was her composure, her casual condescension? She could have hung up while the kid was calling for him, she could have pretended Clint Barton wasn't worth her time, what was she  _doing_ —

"Is this about the painting or the desire to go have lunch with me?"

"Excuse me?" she asked, relieved that he had said something that she could pretend to be annoyed over, because she did irritated  _a lot_  better than awkwardly interested. "You're rather confident in yourself, aren't you?"

"A little."

Natasha took a breath, then pulled herself together. This was embarrassing.

"This call is a comment and a notification."

"Oh?"

"Yes. My comment is that it takes a certain kind of person to accuse an artist of art theft, and then hit on them."

"Hopefully not a bad kind. At any rate, I didn't  _accuse_ you of anything. I just said I didn't expect to see that particular piece there, in your home.  _You_ were the one to say that they were all originals. I was just trying to make small talk."

"Well, the insinuation was exceptionally rude, and you should know that that is  _not t_ he way to endear yourself to an artist."

"Was that the notification?"

"No, it was a subcomment," she snapped, then held her breath.

"The notification was that I like to have my tea at two in the little cafe beneath my apartment," she said, her stomach dropping away from her, because that had ended up being a whole lot scarier than she had ever expected. Rappelling down high security buildings at night to a yard full of trained dogs with a nearly priceless vase in her hands had been stressful and difficult.  _This_ , however, was terrifying enough to make her want to drop the phone and dry heave in her sink. Thankfully, none of that reached her voice.

"That so?" Clint asked, and she just  _knew_  he was wearing a devilish smile.

"Yes. I go there every day except Sundays, when it's closed."

"Well, I will be sure to consider that, then, Miss Romanoff."

"Thank you. Have a good evening, Mister Barton."

Natasha promptly hung up, before Clint could wheedle in any more clever conversation. She leaned against the counter, clutching the phone in her hand.

She had just done the whole I'm-not-asking-but-I-really-am-asking bit with Clint about a date.

Natasha really hoped this wasn't a mistake.

* * *

Natasha rested her arm against the back of her chair, quietly surveying the people around her. She had her pocket sketchbook laid out on her lap, the off-white pages practically blinding against her black dress, and with the sun bouncing off them.

She had invited Clint to tea two days ago, but she still couldn't keep her toes from tapping due to nerves. She kept thinking that maybe,  _maybe_  this would be it, but so far he hadn't shown up.

A sigh escaped her, and she turned back to look at her sketchbook. The profile of an elderly man talking was juxtaposed from a young woman strutting down the street, phone and dog in hand. She idly cast her eye around the street for another subject, when she saw Clint.

Natasha couldn't help but break into a smile as he paused in front of her table, looking far more presentable than he had on their first encounter. His clothes weren't dressy or expensive like Natasha's, but he still looked nice. His hair was brushed, and he didn't look vaguely frazzled and wasn't half out off breath, like last time. He also wasn't soaked, she noted, and hopefully managed to hide her smirk.

"Miss Romanoff," he said, a slightly mocking tone in his voice, "imagine seeing you here."

"Mister Barton. I can hardly believe the odds."

Clint smirked and nodded, then pointed at the doors to the cafe.

"D'you mind if I popped in there to buy something real quick? If I sit out here without buying something, the baristas won't be able to glare at me as often, so they'll have to amp up the hate in their eyes to make sure I get the message."

"Afraid their mean looks might make you combust?"

"This  _is_  New York. A guy exploding from the ugly looks of baristas is pretty low on a weirdness scale set by a giant ape slapping air planes from a sky scraper."

Natasha chuckled and waved him away, to which he gave an overly polite nod, and walked inside.

Now that Clint had finally appeared, Natasha felt her nerves both settle down and shake themselves up. She didn't have to worry about Clint taking her offer any more, but now she had to actually think about sitting down and having tea with the man that had rightfully accused her of professional art theft.

To distract herself, Natasha took off her large sunglasses, but left on the black sun hat. She took a few steadying breaths, folded the glasses and set them neatly by her saucer, and waited for Clint to come back outside. Clearly he wasn't worried about this conversation, and if anything, was treating it like a normal date.

Natasha wasn't quite sure what to think about this part of the problem. Her last relationship had ended with a couple of considerable lies, a few desperate favors, and her finally fleeing the country. Not that it had actually been a  _bad_  relationship, but it hadn't exactly set a good precedent.

Clint returned to the table holding an enormous brownie and an Italian soda. He settled down across from her, stuck the straw in his drink, then looked at her expectantly.

"So, Miss Romanoff."

"Mister Barton."

"Are we gonna do this every time we talk?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow. "How 'bout you just call me 'Clint'."

"I suppose you may call me 'Natasha'," she answered, feeling her anxiety abate. Banter was good. Banter she could handle.

"Great. Day going well?"

"So far, yes, though a particular patch of vines refuse to allow themselves to be painted."

"Oh?"

"Yes," she sighed into her tea cup. "Something about the paints I'm mixing isn't working with the rest of the color scheme."

"Well, I really can't advise you on that. I barely got enough color sense to match my clothes."

They both laughed, and Clint took a sip of his Italian soda. Natasha cast another look over the drink, deciding that it wasn't much more than coloring, lies, and sugar. She bit back any comments about his not drinking tea at tea time, deciding that playful criticisms were reserved for a later date.

"So, what is it you do?"

"Whatever I can," Clint said, waving a hand. "Being a circus attraction wasn't really a career, plus no one  _really_ wants to feed Doritos to ostriches for the rest of their lives, so I settled for doing a bit of everything to see what sticks."

Natasha raised an eyebrow, wondering which part of his sentence she was supposed to tackle first. He gave her a fantastically roguish grin that made her think he was just teasing her, so she left the circus thing alone.

The two of them continued talking, pleasantly passing from subject to subject. Natasha made sure to keep Clint away from the topic of art or her past, while she sensed that Clint was doing much the same. She couldn't say just  _what_  it was that he was trying to avoid talking about, but she had seen enough topic dodging in her day to recognize the ear marks.

Still, Natasha found herself enjoying Clint's company. He kept up that charming, clever, and slightly self deprecating air from before, which she found herself taking to. It was clear that the worlds they inhabited were very different, but that didn't stop the conversation from flowing. She talked about art mostly, explaining that she really did love to paint, but that framing was generally a more lucrative, if less soulful, profession. She talked about the differences between watercolor and gouache paint, but that acrylic was her favorite, and that she adored being able to pull inspiration from the people on her street. Clint didn't seem to mind the single mindedness of her conversation, and remained the perfect conversationalist, asking questions here, giving an opinion there.

He in turn spoke about the little quirks of life, as he allegedly had no profession or distinct passion to intrigue Natasha with. She learned that the painting he had picked up from her had been Bernard's anniversary gift to his wife, and that Clint had babysat their son while they went out (apparently, learning how to juggle with one hand was exceptionally tiresome work, and Clint even managed to get the kid to go to bed at a decent hour). He was a kind person, Natasha was coming to realize, the sort that was willing to drop everything and help someone move their couch in during a hailstorm. And as charming as that was, Natasha couldn't help but feel a wriggle of jealousy. So far, everything she had done in her life had been for herself. Even escaping to America with the Vereshchagin had been entirely for her own purposes, and nothing anyone said could make it otherwise.

By the time Clint pulled his brownie into two pieces and offered her half, Natasha had more or less forgotten her anxiety about him guessing her secret. Every time she took over the conversation, he had a little smile on his face, as if to say that he was rather delighted by the whole situation. He gave Natasha the impression that he would keep the Vereshchagin quiet til he died, as long as it meant he was allowed to have tea with her. That didn't mean she would completely forget herself. A secret was a secret, and it could kill someone, no matter who held it.

It was a little strange when Clint finally checked his watch and sighed, muttering something about having to go. Natasha gave him a small smile over their shared brownie, and nodded.

"It was great having tea with you," Clint said, brushing off his hands. She shrugged, running her fingers over the rim of her teacup.

"It was quite nice having tea with you, as well. I learned more about you than I might have otherwise."

"Same here," he grinned, putting his hands in his pockets. They spent a moment just smiling at each other, him standing up, her still lounged in her chair.

Clearly Clint wasn't about to break things up, despite his engagement, so Natasha broke the silence with "Well, we wouldn't want you being late."

"Oh, yeah," he said, but didn't move. Natasha fought to keep her smile from growing a little bit bigger, and picked up her sunglasses. She thumbed through her wallet, ignoring Clint's abrupt comments of "Awh  _c'mon,_  let me do that...", and set down a tip.

"I rather enjoyed myself, Clint. Thank you for the company."

"I had a lot of fun, too. Can't wait to see how those vines shape up."

Natasha gave him a full on smirk, then turned on her heel and walked back into her apartment building. She couldn't help but feel a little satisfied with herself as she let the door swing shut behind her, because she felt that she'd done a good job. She had navigated her way through a not-date-date without making a complete ass of herself, and Clint clearly had no intention of telling her secret to the police. Their little...get together had been fun. She wouldn't mind doing it again some time.


	3. allow me this one thing

Clint 'stumbled across' Natasha having tea two more times before he worked up the courage to ask her out on a real date. Natasha, remembering the anxiety-stricken affair that was her own date asking, decided to spare his nerves. She only toyed with him a  _little_ before agreeing, partially because she didn't want to seem  _too_  eager, and partially because it was kind of adorable, seeing a grown man beg.

Their lunch dates were practically the same as their tea dates, except with the benefit of being a bit longer. Despite them never actually having a conversation of substance, she still learned things about Clint. There were the obvious things that came out, like how she had learned that he had a brother, who was married and had a boy, or how he had lived in Iowa for the vast majority of his childhood, but there were subtler things as well.

She had been seeing him for almost a month, now, and aside from their first encounter, she hadn't seen so much as a hint of a cigarette. Unlike her first assumption about him, Clint wasn't some dirty, pack-a-day smoker. He was more the covert smoker, one that indulged in a cigarette whenever there wasn't any innocent bystander to suffer from his nasty habit. He had bizarrely good aim, proven after entertaining her one afternoon by hitting a variety of targets with sections of his napkin. Natasha had only had to point or nod at something, and a piece of paper would go bouncing off of it moments later. Most of this targets ended up being people, all of whom had been completely oblivious as to why two grown adults were desperately shoving their hands in their mouths, trying not to disrupt their neighbors.

The most interesting thing, though, was that Clint could turn his charisma on and off like a light. One second he would be an average Joe, and the next he would be stunningly complimentary, and gliding his way through formerly closed doors (Natasha assumed this was something washing over from his circus days... _if_  those were even real. She still wasn't sure if he had been joking, as the circus hadn't even been brought up again). Of course, this was hardly the first time she had seen someone so amiable, but it was probably the first time she had seen someone do it with no malicious intent. She was so accustomed to a charming smile being accompanied by some distraction that she had made a point of looking for the trick the first few times Clint did it. Clint undoubtedly noticed, but he never commented on it.

On one of their dates, when Clint had been pressed for time, he had asked her out on a walk. It was hardly the most luxurious date she had ever been on, but it was simple and sweet and exceptionally Clint. Honestly, she was just pleased he was taking time out of his day to see her. Beyond that, thought, Natasha genuinely enjoyed strolling around Central Park with him. They continued their idle conversation, commenting on the people around them and absorbing the casual warmth of spring.

About halfway through, some dormant, affectionate part of Natasha said that she could probably get away with holding his hand. Then she seized up and finished the walk with her hands planted firmly in her pockets. She enjoyed being around Clint, sure, and hell, she even  _liked_ Clint,but she enjoyed the company of and liked a lot of people. She was perfectly comfortable figuring out just _how_  she how she liked him before she decided to get  _crazy_ about things and hold his hand.

As they were nearing the front of the park, Clint's phone went off. He jumped and fished it out of his pocket, muttering, "Crap, sorry, Natasha, I gotta take this."

She waited patiently, wondering just what was being said to make Clint's forehead furrow that way. He ran a knuckle over his eyebrow and sighed, "Yeah, sure, that's fine. Just make sure it's ready by the time I get there," then turned to Natasha.

"Natasha, I'm so sorry, but I gotta go," he whispered, covering the receiver. She smiled and nodded, trying not to feel a little put out that their time together had been cut short, even by a few minutes.

He leaned in and then all thoughts of a good healthy foot between them vanished as she felt him touch her shoulder. It was hardly an intimate gesture, just a form of parting, but Natasha was shocked by how personal it felt. He gave her a brief smile, waved, then left. She watched him go, then pulled her hands out of her pockets now that the danger had passed.

Natasha could still feel the ghost of Clint's fingers on her shoulder when she climbed onto the subway, twenty minutes later.

* * *

"Can I see you work some time?"

Natasha paused, teacup suspended halfway between the table and her mouth. She raised an eyebrow at Clint, then shrugged.

"Sure, I don't mind. Personally, I think framing pictures is rather tedious to watch, but if you want to see it..."

"No, not that," he laughed, shaking his head. He took a drink of the heinously sugary concoction he called an Italian soda (this time it was cream, whipped cream, and hazelnut syrup featuring a smidge of soda water), eyes on her. She finished sipping her tea, then set the cup on its saucer. He was trying to get her to say something, but he was going to have to make his own requests.

"I wanna...could I watch you draw?"

"You've seen me draw. And that's not work."

"I've seen you  _sketch,_  but I've never actually seen the product. Plus it's not the same. I think it would be cool to see how someone goes from a whole buncha nothing to a freakin'  _painting._ I want to see a bit of that, I dunno,  _creative spark._ "

"You want to see my 'creative spark'?"

"Yeah. You saying you don't have it?"

Natasha rolled her eyes at his challenge, a smirk working its way into her features even though she was trying  _very_ hard to scowl.

"I don't know what you're expecting. It's not like I'm going to be making some sort of masterpiece. It's not like it's going to be a  _Monet,_ or some—or some—"

"Vereshchagin?"

Natasha shot him a look that said she did  _not_  appreciate his oh so hilarious sense of irony, but then her smile betrayed her completely.

"No, it's not going to be anything like that."

"I've seen your finished pieces. First time we met, your place was  _plastered_  with all of your stuff. I know what to expect, and that's pretty amazing by itself."

Natasha considered him, tapping her foot slightly. The last person that had seen her paint, really  _paint_ , had been her uncle, and she even then she had been planning her elaborate escape from him. She didn't want that sort of discomfort washing back over this experience. But...she also wanted to show Clint. Painting was an exceptionally personal experience (even when she was simply copying another person's work), and...she wanted Clint to know that part of her. She wanted something more than teasing conversation, a few summations, and sincere yet impersonal dates.

"Okay," she said, feeling that awful sensation of her stomach dropping out of her shoes yet again. "Okay. I...I was actually going to go work on a piece after this. If you want...?"

Clint broke into a large smile.

"I got time."

Natasha tried ignore the butterflies in her stomach as she led him up to her apartment a few minutes later. She kept thinking about how it looked, whether she had cleaned up the stack of mail she had left on the counter, or if she still had those miscellaneous reference photos still strewn about her living room. Clint was oblivious to her growing agitation, serenely walking up the stairs behind her.

When she reached her door, she had to take a moment to drag in a breath before unlocking the door. She pushed it open and stepped inside, inconspicuously craning her neck to see if her home was a mess. Thankfully, it wasn't, but that still didn't manage to soothe her jitters.

How Natasha went from standing in her doorway to sitting in front of her current painting, brush in hand, she had no idea. There were a  _lot_ of steps between here and there, like taking off her shoes, gesturing for Clint to hang up his coat, offering Clint something to eat, excusing herself to go change, coming back, setting up, trying not to fret even more than she already was...and yet, she remembered doing none of them. It was like she blinked, and then she was situated on her work stool with the painting in front and Clint to the side.

"Why...are you smearing colors everywhere?" he asked. She gave him a look, annoyed even though he was clearly trying his best to not sound judgmental. She looked back at the painting, then sighed.

"I'm roughing out the colors. I'm trying to balance things, to make sure that the color scheme has the feel I want."

"Right. Then you'll...?"

"I'm going to put in the roughs, then I'll go back and refine the colors," she said, returning to her work. She paused, then added a smear of purple in the sky.

"So I'm getting that this is a landscape scene," Clint said after another beat, and she closed her eyes. She was used to silent critics, the kind who understood exactly what she was doing just when she was doing it, and who knew what she was doing wrong before she even did it. Or,even better, people who kept their mouths shut until the piece was finished. Clint, obviously, was a completely different sort of audience.

"This here is a field, lots of trees, big tree in front on the left? Yeah, okay, big tree in front to the left, lots of nice sky between the top of the forest in the background and the branches of that front tree. But what's that thing?" he asked, pointing at the blob of red, orange, and tan at the top of the painting.

"That's a person sitting in the tree."

"Oh. I was just confused, from its general lack of peopley-ness."

Natasha gave him another look.

"I...will stop talking unless I have a good question," he mumbled, deflating slightly. Natasha heaved a mental sigh. She hadn't meant to be  _that_  hostile, but she also valued the quiet too much to apologize.

Natasha continued working. She finished the roughs and quickly began shaping the picture, adding definition to the forest, giving the field in the center shading to show depth, dappling the figure in the tree to show the light coming through the leaves. Clint was quiet for the most part, asking only pertinent questions like he promised. He asked her why she was using purple to shade the picture (to add depth without making the picture muddy, like what typically happened with black paint), or why she was 'using such a crap load of brushes' (each brush was very, very different, Clint), or why she was caking on the paints.

"These paints, acrylics, give more control when I use them heavily. They  _could_ be used like watercolors, if I use water to dilute the paints," she said, gesturing at one of the paintings on her wall, "but then they dry fairly quickly, and I'm stuck with it the way it is. This way, I can manipulate the painting as much as I want, as it's a lot slower to dry."

"So if you water them down, then you've gotta hide your mistakes. But if they're heavy, then they're not really  _mistakes_  so much as the steps towards a better product."

"Yes."

"I feel like there's some sort a metaphor in there," Clint sighed, making her laugh.

"Probably. I'll let you figure that one out, though."

She lapsed back into painting, giving shape to the clouds, blending in the moss on the trunk of the main tree, shaping some of the leaves—

"Why d'ya do that?"

"Hm?"

"Why do you do that?" he repeated, exaggerating the words.

Natasha turned to face Clint, utterly lost. He sighed, then took her hand.

"You just smeared paint all over your palm. Why'd ya do that?"

"I, oh, uhm, I had too much paint on the brush."

"So you've got a palette, and a whole  _painting_  to spread that around on. Why use your hand?"

Natasha looked down at her left palm, frowning. She had hardly been conscious of the action, but there was the paint, streaked different shades of green and already starting to dry.

"If I wiped it on the palette, it might flick everywhere, or I might wipe too much off. And I don't want those particular colors on the rest of the painting. The paint will wash off fairly easy."

Clint laughed, shaking his head.

"Artists are  _weird._ "

Natasha rolled her eyes, but refrained from making some ruffled comment about how she wouldn't call herself something so loaded as an  _artist._

Clint was still holding her hand, so Natasha turned her head to continue examining her painting. She jumped a little when she felt his thumb run over her palm, but then realized he was checking to see if the paint was still wet.

"That really does dry fast," he murmured, more to himself than anything. Natasha watched him, taken by how absorbed he was. He was completely invested in his task, running through what she had told him and pairing that with what he had just experienced. His expression was thoughtful, almost to the point where he seemed disconnected from where he was.

Clint raised her hand, and pressed his lips to her palm. Natasha frowned at him as he pulled it away, noting the green that was now speckling his lips.

"Why did you do that?" she asked, setting down her paint brush. She checked the thumb of her free hand to make sure that it didn't also have paint on it, then attempted to smear the paint off of his face. "You've got green paint all over your mouth now, and it's not going to be fun washing it once it dries."

Clint stared at her, confused for a moment. He looked at her, eyes making their way from her face along her arm to her hand. He raised an eyebrow as she continued smearing her thumb along his mouth, as if asking if she realized what she was doing.

Natasha froze. Her heart attempted to fly into her mouth, but it seemed to get stuck somewhere in her throat, and she felt like choking for a moment. She stared at Clint with wide eyes, trying to deal with the fact that she not only had just wiped her hand all over his mouth, but that Clint had just  _kissed her palm._

The sudden urge to leap up and bolt for the door nearly overwhelmed her, but Clint was still holding her hand, anchoring her. She was still considering it, to be honest. She wasn't  _ready_  for this, she wasn't ready to go dive into... _whatever_ it was he was asking her to dive into! She couldn't even comfortably hold his  _hand_ , much less declare to the world that yes,  _yes_  she was interested in someone, yes she was ready to throw her soul at Clint Barton and pray he catch it!

She might have said something in those awkward seconds, but she couldn't remember anything. It probably wasn't anything intelligent, or more likely anything coherent, but hopefully Clint trying to figure out what she was saying would give her time to process things and figure out how to  _get out of there._

Natasha took her hand back, eyes dropping to it. She could see the marks his mouth had made in the paint, a literal reminder that she couldn't pretend this hadn't happened. She could try, though. She was very,  _very_ good at pretending.

Natasha turned back to her painting, blindly reaching for her paintbrush. She was scrambling to grab back that wonderful, annoyed ,and vaguely icy persona she had first had with Clint, because annoyed and icy was far more in control than shell shocked and mortified.

Clint took her chin in his hand, and in one swift motion he had turned her back around and had kissed her. Natasha sat there for a moment, feeling adequately dumbfounded. She blinked a couple times, trying to figure out what she was supposed to do, what move she was supposed to make next, but nothing would come,  _nothing would come_. She was flailing, desperately reaching back into her old days to find a personality, to find a con that would work in this situation, but she had never  _been_  in this situation. The closest she came was her last relationship, and that had been a fierce burn and an aggressive display of affection from before the word 'go'. She had known exactly what was wanted and expected from her, but here, here she had  _no idea._

Then Natasha broke the spectrum of worrying, and reached the point where she didn't care. She stopped thinking about what her personas would do in this situation, and just did what  _she_ would do in this situation. She kissed back.

It only lasted a few seconds, a few blissful seconds of not thinking and not planning and most of all, not  _worrying_ , but she found herself loving every moment of it. When she pulled away, she found that Clint was giving this wide, adorable grin, like he was the most pleased person in all the world.

She watched him for a moment, then brushed her thumb against his lips again, just to make sure it had happened, just to make sure it was real. His grin turned a little mischievous, and he grabbed her hand again, and kissed the pad of her thumb.

Natasha broke into an equally large and ridiculous smile, trying to think of what to do next.

"Now it looks like we've both got green paint on us."

Clint laughed and shrugged, as if to say that it was a very, very small price to pay. She couldn't help but agree.


	4. tell me soft and tell me sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am ridiculously excited for this chapter. Also, enjoy some time in Clint's headspace! I had a lot of fun writing it, because he's DEFINITELY not the aesthete she is, and views things in a utilitarian sort of way, but he still has an appreciation for the beauty and glory he is faced with.

 

Clint toyed with his phone in his pocket as he walked towards Natasha's apartment. He had been seeing her for a while now, about two months. At least, it had been two months since their first date outside the cafe under her apartment. He wasn't quite sure when they had shifted from the casual investigation stage to the emotional investment stage, but he knew that by the time he had kissed her, he was an absolute and complete goner. But he could also tell that things would have to go slow with Natasha. She was exceptionally hesitant about every little thing, each basic step turning into a leap of faith.

Seeing the trepidation in her eyes didn't deter or frustrate him, though. Clint could see all the wonderful potential there was between them, and they would still reach the end together if he walked at her pace instead of his own.

Yet, he also felt a bit of anxiety over holding her in his hands. Clint knew that if he messed up with Natasha, she would be even more removed in the next relationship, if there even _was_  a next one for her. He had grown up under a negative relationship, and had seen the exact sort of damage it could cause on a person. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he did that to someone else, especially if they were as fragile as Natasha was.

He opened the door to Natasha's apartment building, and started climbing the steps.

Clint liked Natasha's apartment. It was crisp and bright and frankly  _beautiful_ , filled with gorgeous art and stylish furniture. He liked his own apartment well enough, as it was clean, had comfortable furniture, and wasn't falling down around his ears, but Natasha's place was the very definition of comfort and class. That was probably because she actually  _had_ the money to indulge in her tastes, but then, Clint wasn't sure if he'd manage better, even if he miraculously became a millionaire.

Clint rapped on Natasha's door, unable to hold back his smile when it opened. Natasha gave a pleased half smile and said, "Hey there, stranger."

"Hey, Natasha," he said, and stepped inside. "Whatcha working on today?"

"Just a couple of frames. A high school art class are putting a bunch of their pieces in the art gallery at a local library, and they all want it done by next week."

"That as rough as it sounds?"

"It's fairly tedious. It's kind of entertaining to see the art, though. There's a lot of talent in that class."

"Cool. Nothing as good as you, though, right?" He nudged her on the side, earning a smirk and an eye roll as she walked back to the kitchen. Clint walked over to her desk, scanning a few of the pieces laying out. He could tell that the artists hadn't quite matured yet, but like Natasha had said, there was a lot of talent staring back at him. He shifted aside a few frames aside to look at a few of the pictures on the bottom, then turned to Natasha. She wasn't wearing the dark tank top and exercise pants that were her work clothes, but was instead wearing a rich blue shirt with white buttons down the back and black capris.

"Were you headed somewhere?"

"In a little bit. I need to run a few errands."

"Do you need to go right now?"

"No, I can wait. Would you like something to drink?"

Clint walked over to the counter, and rested his arms on the edge.

"Apple juice, straight up."

"Daring, aren't we?" she asked, opening her fridge and pulling out a container of juice. He shrugged and was on the verge of saying something clever and glib, but then his hearing aid beeped, cutting him off.

_Dammit._

"Was that your phone?" Natasha asked, glancing over her shoulder.

"Nah, that was my hearing aid," he sighed. "It's gonna go dead, soon."

"Hearing aid?" Natasha looked at him, eye brows raised in surprise. The container of apple juice was still held in mid air, apparently forgotten in the face of this new development. He shrugged and forced himself not to fidget, because he was an  _adult_ , not a nervous fourteen year old that didn't want people to find out he was  _different_.

"Yeah." He pulled it out of his ear, and held it up for her to see. Natasha leaned over to look at it, small and unimpressive by itself. It was about the size of his thumbnail, blue for the most part, but with a flat end that was flesh colored to help disguise it.

Natasha nodded, clearly still surprised, then turned to finish pouring him a drink. Clint watched her face, a small bit of him relieved that she had treated it like it was nothing. But, just as she was turning away, he caught her expression change slightly, becoming a little sad.

"What?" he asked, stomach tightening. She shook her head, not looking at him for a moment.

"It's just...we've known each other for about two months, and yet...there is a lot we don't know about each other." She handed him his cup, nailing him full on with that somber, slightly confused look. Clint laughed, unsurprised to find that it had turned a little melancholic as well.

"Well, for me, at least, there are some things you just don't want to spill on the first date."

"I'm not bothered you didn't tell me about the hearing aids," Natasha said, shaking her head. "I just—I want to know you, Clint."

Clint blinked, uncertain what to do with the strikingly open and hopeful expression she was giving him. His first instinct was to take her face in his hands and kiss her until he knew exactly what hope and honesty tasted like, but he sensed that wasn't exactly the smartest course here.

He chewed on his cheek, because aside from kissing her, he was fairly comfortable with quietly edging around the uglier parts of his life, of which the hearing aids were  _hardly_  the beginning. But Natasha, whom undoubtedly had quite a bit under her belt as well, was asking, politely, quietly, wanting to be let in.

He nodded, and her smile was delicious and a little nervous.

"Do you want to stay here, or go...?" She gestured towards the living room, and he nodded, picking up his glass. Natasha lingered in the kitchen long enough to fill her own glass and bring a plate of sugar cookies over.

"What are those for?" Clint asked, raising an eyebrow as she sat on the couch.

"They're from my neighbor," she told him. She set them down on the coffee table, and settled in one of the black square arm chairs.

"Do I need to be worried?" he asked, taking a cookie.

"Not really, as she's married, and I'm not a lesbian."

"That's good. I'm not sure I could beat out somebody with such seductive cookie making powers," he said. Natasha gave a soft laugh, then fell silent. They looked at each other for a moment, both wearing strangely uncertain smiles.

"Where do you want to start?"

"I'm not sure." Natasha was starting to look a little embarrassed, as she was trying to hide her face by 'casually' looking away and brushing her hair out of her face.

"Okay...why don't you tell me what you  _do_ know about me?"

"You grew up in Iowa," Natasha began, looking up at the ceiling as she thought. "You moved to New York a few years back, you've got a brother, sister-in-law, and a nephew. You've referenced circus life multiple times, but I'm not sure if you really lived there for a period—"

"I did," he interrupted, grinning. "I joined when I was, what, sixteen, and learned actual work ethic. I left after a couple months and went to college."

"Clown college?"

" _Community_  college," he said, allowing a resigned smile at the joke, because everyone had to make it at least once.

"Alright. You had a dog a while back, but he's gone, but not dead, you smoke, and you do an assortment of jobs for a temp agency. And," her mouth quirked at this, as if to say  _of course,_ "you have hearing aids."

Clint smiled at her summation, but he couldn't help but feel a little strange at hearing his life so neatly wrapped up by her gentle, accented voice. It all sounded so different, almost charming and idyllic, even, which was a gross misrepresentation of what had actually occurred. There had been a lot of pain and screwing up and awkwardly making amends in his life that could never be fathomed when listening to that voice. Clint wasn't sure if he disliked or preferred it that way. On one hand, he would have loved to have something so sweet, but at the same time, he would never have been the person he was today without it.

Natasha's smile changed ever so slightly, and she tilted her head at him, sensing something was off. Clint slipped into a smile of his own to keep her from asking what was wrong, and said, "Well, if you know  _that_ much, then clearly I haven't been doing my job very well."

She laughed at his joke, but Clint could tell she wasn't going to dismiss his expression so easily. Natasha would hang onto it and fling it back at him later down the road, probably when he didn't expect it, so that he would have to scramble and end up in a corner with only the truth as his way out.

"That's it," she said after a pause. "That's all I know about you."

"That's it? That's  _all_ you've got?"

"Well, there are  _other things,_  but they're not really important. I could tell you that you like pushing your sleeves up to your elbows, or that you're a sugar  _fiend,_  or that you have strangely amazing aim, or that you notice so much of your surroundings. But that's not what I'm asking. I could figure that out just by spending a few afternoons with you. But I don't know... _how_  you got here," she said, staring at his hands as she searched for the words. "I don't know what happened to make you Clint Barton. I don't know who you've been through the good and the bad, because I don't  _know_  your good and bad. Do you understand, does that makes sense?"

He nodded, and let out a long, slow breath. For a second, he felt dread and a childish petulance inside of him, because he didn't  _want_ to tell her. He didn't want to let her crack him open and pick his past apart for her own curiosity. He didn't want her, prim, well off, educated, and cultured Natasha Romanoff to peer down at grubby little Clint Barton. He had been the kid who was so poor that he had had to wear shoes long after holes had been worn into them, who had been yelled at every time he had gone home from college, like he was a stupid kid again with no worth in the world, who had made a game of stealing things because his father had been too drunk to go to work and actually get paid. He didn't want her to see how dirty and ungainly his life had been, especially when she was accustomed to some level of glamor.

But he  _did_ want to please Natasha. He wanted to make her more comfortable around him. He wanted to meet her, step for step, down this strange road they were making.

_Oh, hell, Barton, man up and answer her._

"I get it," he said, and shifted in his seat. "Well, what d'you...what d'you want to know?"

"What was it like, growing up?"

"Tough," he said, meeting her eyes and hoping that his expression was more frank and open than flat and bitter. "We were poor, and that was hard. Just another thing for kids to pick on me an' Barney for."

"You were bullied?"

"Yeah. Me more than Barney. I was smaller, I talked funny, 'cause I couldn't hear properly, I didn't know when to shut up...typical stuff, really."

"Cruelty should never be called 'typical'. Not from a person, not from a child."

Clint cracked into a smile at Natasha's unhappy expression.

"But it is common, child or not."

She looked away, clearly reminded of something else. He bit his lip, and decided not to push even though he wanted to know. Clint cleared his throat, but couldn't think of anything lighter to say, so he let the silence continue on. After a few seconds, Natasha spoke. She was still looking off at the far wall, but her words weren't upset.

"Did that ever...poison you?" she asked. She gave an annoyed huff that said she couldn't think of the right word in English, then said, "Because of that, did you ever become cruel in turn? Did that make you want to...be less, just to get even?"

"Oh, yeah, tons of times. I got into a lotta fights because of the bullying, and I didn't have any problems fighting dirty to make them pay for what they'd done or said to me. But after a while, I figured out that I became even worse than them, and I kind of hated the effort it took to  _be_ mean, y'know? I didn't really want anything to do with them, but I was makin' myself be awful just to make them feel bad for makin' me feel bad. So I figured this all out by the time I graduated, and got to be a new man in college."

She was looking at him now, expression surprised. Natasha tucked her hair behind her ear again, and Clint bit down on the urge to reach over and run his hands through her hair, completely messing it up. He absolutely loved her hair, the color, the style, the way it was spunky and fierce, and yet sleek and mature at the same time. But they were talking right now, not pawing all over each other, so he kept one hand on the arm rest and one hand on his glass and everything was good.

"That's...very big of you."

"No, that's just the lazy bit of me. The good is all incidental."

Natasha sipped her drink, casting him a smirk over the rim of her glass. She set it back down on her coaster, then rested her chin on interlaced fingers.

"What else?"

"Hm? Now I get to choose?"

"Yes, what do  _you_  think I should know about you?" He frowned at her, because this was  _much_  harder than just answering whatever questions popped into her head. Now he had to really think and try not to spill too much too soon, but also let her know what she wanted.

"Uhm...hm. I dunno, I...okay, well, this is important."

"What is it?" Natasha asked, looking not  _eager,_  exactly, but definitely expectant.

"Mm, well, a few years back...I had a divorce."

Natasha's eyebrows jumped up, giving her a sudden look of complete shock. He forced himself not to smile too much, because this was serious and she would only get huffy, but it was kind of hilarious seeing her knocked off center.

"Oh?" she asked, clearly trying to buy herself time to recover. Clint nodded, and reached for another cookie. She caught his hand, giving him a look between a glare and a smirk. To her credit, only now did Natasha's eyes flick over his ring finger, as if worried she would suddenly find a wedding band there. She looked back at him, shaking her head. There was something in her eyes that had changed though, just a little bit. It suddenly made Clint feel, in comparison to Natasha, very, very old.

"Oh  _no,_ you don't get a cookie until you explain this one."

"Alright, fine. Her name was Bobbi, and we were married for a few years before it all fell apart."

"Why?"

"We were just too young and stupid to make something like that work," he sighed. "We got married not long after college, we were poor, we had debt, we didn't have family we could really rely on, and we were bothso freakin'  _stubborn._  We couldn't back down from  _anything,_ and then we'd start fighting. It was  _stupid_ stuff, too. She wanted the room cool, I wanted to watch sports, she liked dressing up when we went out to eat, stuff like that. Everythin' turned into an argument in the end, and finally we just grew up and realized that we  _never_  shoulda been married."

"So how is it now? Do you two still—"

"Like each other? Oh, yeah. We're pretty lucky," he reflected. "We're still friends, somehow. We just couldn't a been spouses."

Natasha nodded, not looking quite impressed. Clint couldn't help but laugh at that, raising an eyebrow.

"What, you  _want_  it to have been messy and awful?"

" _No,_ " she said, flushing a little. "I just—that's it? You just... _fell apart_? Just cut it off while you were kind of ahead?"

"Mm-hm. It's actually one of the better, more grown up decisions I've ever made. I didn't hold on because of pride or whatever, and that helped us grow up. Bobbi's moved on to better things, has a boyfriend from Pennsylvania, I think, and I've...well, I've moved on, too." He gave her a mild smile, wondering if it was necessary to say that things were better for him, too. It seemed unfair, though, because Natasha and Bobbi were drastically different people, and could  _never_ be accurately compared.

Natasha watched him for a moment, eyes serious as she contemplated what he had said. She picked up her glass, fingers tracing patterns in it and making the condensation run together and drip onto her pant leg.

"So," Clint said after a pause, "do I get my cookie now?"

Natasha broke into a smile as she glanced up at him, returning her eyes to her glass before she gave a brief nod. He reached over and grabbed one, watching her as he bit into it.

"What about you?" he asked. "What kind of joys are in  _your_  past love life?"

Natasha gave a gentle sigh through her nose, not looking away from her glass of juice.

"Not many," she said, and it struck him, the way she was so accepting of the fact that she hadn't had much happiness in love. "Things were always too...complex for that."

"What kind of complex?"

"Not-really-caring-about-each-other complex. He and I...were very selfish people at that time."

"'He and I'? So it's one guy?"

"For the most. Nothing else was really important." The words should have made Clint at least  _a little_  concerned, because he'd dated girls after they had found Their One and Only, and it was always messy and uncomfortable and typically ended up with him being the bad guy, and sometimes even getting a black eye. But the way Natasha said it, with a reflective and slightly embarrassed smile, and a tone that said that he was just about her only confidant on the matter, soothed Clint's worries before they even began.

"I don't know, we said we were dating, but it was never...we were more like partners. We'd get into trouble together and we'd haul each other out, and it worked. It just wasn't  _enough._ "

"I can't exactly picture you as the Bonnie and Clyde type." Natasha laughed and nodded, glancing around at her nice apartment, with its vaulted ceilings, giant airy windows, pristine light grey walls, and stunning collection of art. Clint didn't mention that she would have been a much more  _refined_ sort of criminal, sneaking into museums and disappearing from mansions with exquisite antiquities under her arm, but that was probably because they both totally knew it was true.

"Yes, well, I was a different person then," she said, resting her cheek on her hand. "I was much more... _incorrigible_  than I would like to admit. And he loved the thrill, so we ended up doing plenty of stupid things together. I don't know, he saw things differently than I did. To me, he was..." She trailed off, seeming to turn self conscious.

"What? He was...what?"

"A muse," she admitted, mouth pursing off to the side as if to say she wasn't proud of it, but there it was. Clint stared at her for a moment, then burst into laughter.

"Your  _muse_? Really? Like, that's a real thing?"

" _Yes,_  it's  _real,_ " she huffed, just like he had guessed (Clint absolutely reveled in the fact that he knew her well enough to call it, and it was almost enough to outweigh his regret at how  _imperious_  she was about to become). "People can gather inspiration from anywhere, Mr. Barton, and it's not exactly strange for it to be a person you know well."

"Yeah, but, that's for  _Walt Whitman,_  or  _Picasso,_ you know, old guys like that. I mean, it's not only guys that get muses, but people back at the turn of the century or something." He paused, frowning at her. "It just kind of feels weirdly sensual."

"That's it, you don't get any more cookies," Natasha said, scooting the plate away from him. He protested, trying to snag at least two more before it was out of his reach, but Natasha waved him away. He couldn't help but laugh again, which earned him a glare that was determined to be unamused.

"Do you have a painting of him, your muse?"

"Yes."

He looked at her, pointedly waiting for her to get up and show him one. She heaved another sigh and rolled her eyes. Natasha got up and stalked over to her stack of paintings on the floor. He heard her stand still for a moment, and Clint leaned over the arm of his chair, trying to catch a glimpse of her around the small wall sectioning off the room. He saw only a small part of her, staring down at the paintings before her, hesitating, hesitating.

She seemed to steel herself, then leaned over and picked up a painting. By the time she walked back into the living room, Clint had settled back into his previous position, like he had never moved in the first place.

"Here," she said casually, holding out the canvas to him. Clint sat up, examining the painting.

It wasn't very big, a low rectangle that was maybe two feet by one foot, but the picture was striking. It was of a man, painted from the hips up. He was wearing a dark blue shirt, the sleeves tugged back enough to show his wrists, and the buttons at his collar were undone enough to show his collarbones. He was hunched slightly, like he was ducking to look at something, or maybe was in the process of standing up. His hand was at his mouth in what could have been him wiping something away, or a gesture of intently focusing on something. The man's skin was deathly pale, almost a pale blue, but the bits of pink on his finger tips, the edge of his nose, and lazy red of his mouth made him seem painfully alive, bitten by a cold he wasn't dressed for. The picture cut off just above his mouth, the bottom of his nose a question at the top of the canvas.

The painting wasn't like any of the others Clint had seen by Natasha. This was dark, blacks and blues mixing to make a striking image. It was also messier, the strokes not ending in the familiar taper, but dragging away to nothing, bits of paint caught on the ridges of the canvas. Overall, the picture seemed chaotic and dark, beautiful and yet dangerous.

"He's a figure, I'll give you that," Clint said, giving a smile. Natasha looked at him, nervousness in her eyes.

"Yes, he was." Natasha fell back a step, her calves leaning against the coffee table.

"Thank you. For showing me that," he said, sensing that it hadn't been the easiest thing for her to do. But Natasha shrugged like it was nothing, lowering the picture.

"So...you use many models?"

"I did, back then. My uncle encouraged my painting, and went to great lengths to help me improve."

"Your uncle, and not your parents?"

"My uncle was the one raising me, most of my childhood."

Clint nodded, new, more invasive questions perching on his tongue. He wondered about this uncle, and if he knew anything about Natasha's probable art theft. Her old boyfriend-muse-guy-thing probably was in on the crime, but how far did it extend? Whose idea had it been? Had the heist been his idea, or hers, or someone else's completely? Clint bit his tongue, though, reminding himself that he didn't  _actually_ know if Natasha  _was_ an art thief.

"I guess that's where the artistic influence came from. He didn't paint as much, at least, not in a realistic way. He was more into abstract or modern art, but what he  _loved_  was sculpting."

"Was he good?"

"Very good. He sold his pieces all over the world, not just in Russia. He had so much discipline, it was amazing. Once he set his mind onto something, that was it. It would always be finished."

"That's something I could probably use," Clint chuckled. Natasha gave a smile, but he noticed that the look did not touch her eyes.

"Did you like Russia?"

"Parts of it," Natasha said, turning to put the painting away. "It was very beautiful where I lived, but I prefer the climate here. The people there...they paid so much more attention to the delicacy of things, the art. Everything was bigger, grander, larger than life. And here, it's all so  _clean,_ " she said, returning to stand in front of him.

" _Clean_?"

"Mm, yes. Like in the sky scrapers, they're impressive, but it's all cold, concrete and sharp glass. It's all very straightforward, cut and dry. Americans are blunt, and hammer their way to what they want, and they forget to appreciate what's around. It's all about the next buck, the next prize, the next big thing."

"I can see that," Clint said. "When did you move here?"

"About four years ago. Would you like a refill?" Natasha asked, gesturing at his cup. He nodded, noticing the abrupt subject change. He let out a slow breath, sensing this was where she would stop for the day, that he had tapped out his number of personal questions. A part of him felt a little disappointed, because there was still _so much to know,_ but he took another breath, and waited, waited, waited.

As Natasha refilled his drink, Clint ran a hand over his eyes, mulling over what she had told him. There was a lot of anxiety and pain coiled in her words, making him think that perhaps her life hadn't been as glorious as he had earlier imagined. Someone or something had stalked her steps, waiting and watching and wearing her down, making her the closed off person she was today. It could have been her ex, or her uncle, or something else entirely, but he could tell it had caused lasting damage.

"So, how old were you when you moved from Iowa?" Natasha asked, tone artificially light.

"I was about twenty-five," he said, ruffling his hair. "I wanted out of my small home town, and New York just ended up being the place."

"Did you marry Bobbi here or in Iowa?"

"In Iowa. One of the first things we did was move here."

As they continued the small talk, Clint couldn't help but think how  _thin_  it all felt. After tugging back bits of their masks and mystery, after showing a bit of their souls willingly, without coercion and without suffering, the conversation felt empty. They were back to talking but not really saying anything, tiptoeing and pretending.

Sound cut out on Clint's right side, and he groaned. He hated it whenever this happened. It felt like someone was patting cotton onto his face, stuffing his ear to the brim. It made him antsy and uncomfortable, but he clenched his hands a few times and worked through it.

"What is it?" Natasha asked, pausing in her act of being a good host.

"My hearing aid just died," he said, leaning over his seat to look at her. He turned his head to hear her a little bit better, noting her concerned expression and allowing himself a quiet moment of delight over it.

"Oh. Do I need to talk louder?" Natasha asked, and he shook his head.

"No, I can still hear out of the other one, and it should be fine when you come sit down." Natasha nodded, and a few moments later, she was returning with their filled cups. He thanked her as he took his, taking a quick sip before setting it on the coffee table. She set her cup beside his, then paused standing up. It seemed like she was reluctant to sit back down and return to the conversation after having stopped opening up for the day, and was now treading water, trying to find a new direction to go in.

"Let me...let me go get..." she began, turning to walk past him again. Natasha didn't bother to finish her sentence, instead trailing off into convenient and ambiguous silence. She edged past him, Clint watching her go, but at the last second, he reached out. He caught hold of her hand, saying, " _Wait,_ " and making her turn.

Natasha looked down at him, and then he gently pulled her to him. She stopped in front of him, lips pressed into an uncertain line.

"Wait," he repeated, looking up into her green eyes. They were curious and yet cautious, unsure as to what he was going to ask of her next. He took a breath, not really sure what he wanted, only knowing that he couldn't let her leave and wander off into that world where her main comfort and defense was distance.

He pulled her hand towards him, raising his other hand to hover over her hip. Natasha leaned back at this, clearly on the edge of balking, but he moved slowly, looking up into her face the entire time, and letting her see exactly what he was trying to do. Natasha flinched when he touched her side, then allowed herself to be settled on his knee. She looked at the arm of the chair, hands clasped tight as she tried to battle her way through complete discomfort.

"Natasha," he said softly, and she turned to look at him. Clint slipped his hand into hers, carefully sliding his fingers in between hers. Natasha pressed her lips together, uncertainty almost looking like fear on her face. He leaned forward, and she mirrored him, movements hesitant until they were almost forehead to forehead.

"Please, tell me, did you...is that Vereshchagin real?" he whispered, the words tumbling from his lips before he had time to think. He clenched his teeth, because that was just  _great,_ he had gone and said probably the worst thing possible. He knew how she closed down at the mention of that stupid painting. He  _knew_  how wary she became, and yet, just when he was making a little leeway, he had gone and taken a damn  _hatchet_  to the beehive.

To his surprise, Natasha didn't pull back, or scowl, or look away. That uncertain, open expression on her face stayed, her eyes scanning his features. She bit her lip and took a shaky breath, then asked, "Why do you want to know?"

He looked at her for a moment, a thousand different answers stacking on his tongue, ones that he thought maybe she would want to hear, but the words that left his mouth were, "I don't know."

Natasha stared at him for a moment, then glanced away.

"Can you hear out of this ear?" she asked, gesturing to his right ear. He held his breath and nodded, not sure if the moment was gone and he had missed his chance. She bit her lip, and for a second, Clint seriously considered ducking away from the question, instead leaving those extra few inches and kissing her like he had wanted to since the beginning of the conversation. It would have been easy, just a little bit of courage and then they could pretend like this had never happened, they could wait until they knew each other a little better, trusted each other a little more.

But then Natasha let her breath out in a soft huff, and leaned in so that her mouth was by his ear. Natasha's breath was warm on the side of his face as she spoke, her words a muted whisper he barely heard.

"The Vereshchagin is real."

Clint stared past the waves of red hair brushing against his cheek, expecting his stomach to turn cold at her words. They were a confession, really, because the silent words that went with them were enough to have her convicted and thrown in jail.

_The Vereshchagin is real. I stole it and replaced it with a fake._

Yet his stomach didn't turn cold. He just felt a bloom of warmth, because she had trusted him, she had opened up to him. Out of everyone else in the world, she had picked  _him._

"Why...why keep it?"

"Because it reminded me that even though people find paintings and portraits to be perfect depictions of history, to be markers of fact...paintings can tell the truth or they can tell a lie. What you see on a canvas...is not necessarily real. You can't take it on faith alone, you have to know."

Clint didn't ask how she had taken such meaning from the painting, or why it was important. He didn't ask how she had taken it, or if it was the only painting she had stolen, or if anyone else knew. He just sat in silence, wondering what he was supposed to do with the sectioned off parts of her he had craved so much.

After a moment, he realized that Natasha was holding her breath, waiting for his response. He didn't say anything or look at her, just shifted his arms a little. Clint pulled her into what he supposed could be called a hug, his forehead resting against her collar bone. Natasha was frozen for a moment, then carefully settled her arms around his neck. He pressed his cheek into her skin, and closed his eyes when he felt her rest her chin on the top of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to imagine that Natasha's merry misadventures as a con artist were basically a gender bent version of White Collar.


	5. close enough to honest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahahaha ah yes this story is still a thing /headdesk
> 
> I had a lot of fun messing around in Clint's headspace here, because I don't think I've ever written him quite so SULKY before. It was an awesome challenge, and I think I did an okay job ;)

The hard grit of concrete was painful against Clint's head, but he stayed still and squinted up at the sky. He was laying on the tiny thing that constituted his balcony, legs hooked over the side of the rail. He had started out standing, but eventually he had found himself laying down, lazily finishing off a cigarette as he tried to not stare at the sun.

Clint didn't really want to be at his apartment. He wanted to be anywhere else, wanted to be doing anything else, but he had to wait for a phone call from a man named Walter. If Walter gave him the go ahead, then Clint would be able to go about his business and not have to look back. If not, then he would be forced to tender foot it around a truck full of merchandise, sweating and looking over his shoulder every five seconds. So there he stayed, contorting himself on his balcony and trying not to get ashes on his face whenever he took a drag.

He was also  _really_  trying not to think about what he was doing, because he had sworn to himself that  _last_  time would actually be the last time. But at this point, he was already neck deep in the whole transaction, and if he suddenly tried to back out on the sale of a truck full of questionable blue jeans, then Clint would just be screwing himself even more than usual. He might as well help get rid of the evidence and have done with it.

Clint really hated this part of his job. When he was actually doing something, picking locks or dodging the police with a bunch of hot merchandise in his trunk, he wasn't thinking about anything but getting the job done. This, though, this down time, this lag, it was awful. He wasn't doing anything halfway productive, but was instead twiddling his thumbs and wasting a huge amount of time because he had to wait on inconsiderate assholes that couldn't just leave a message.

If he had time after Walter's call, he might stop by Natasha's. It had been almost a week since he had seen her last, and though they had spoken on the phone, and texted a few times, it wasn't really the same. She might give him some grief for his bad mood, but she might  _also_  curl up next to him on the couch, so that she was practically on his lap and just  _stay_  there, soaking up his heat and  _daring_  him to try not being a gentleman. Natasha wasn't really one to hand out kisses or blatant affection on a plate, but her quiet, intimate manner completely made up for it. It was tempting and charming and really just made him want to kiss her all the more, but she made waiting worth it.

Despite how much he enjoyed all of the borderline cuddling she might do, what Clint  _really_ wanted was to have one of their serious, important grown-up talks. Unfortunately, Natasha was even more stingy with her past than her affection, so he knew that he would have to sit on his hands and wait for her to bring it up (because there was just no way in hell he was about to start a conversation that would devolve into 'Oh, by the way, I  _also_ steal things').

And yet…he may have mentally bitched and moaned and squirmed at having to actually tell Natasha about himself at the time, but Clint delighted in the confidence they had shown each other, during their first real conversation together. Sitting in her living room and being  _honest_ with each other, brutally, completely, unceasingly honest...it was the kind of thing that made a person become an addict. He kept finding himself craving more, wanting to know about her life as a person and an artist and a thief, and even sometimes wanting to tell her about himself. But every time he found the words tripping onto his tongue…he pulled himself back. Clint knew talking about himself was bad for obvious reasons, and he knew that he had been wildly lucky when he had asked about the Vereshchagin, and she decided to not kick him out of her house, much less speak on the subject. He didn't want to push his luck, not now.

Clint took another drag of his cigarette, practically spitting the smoke back into the air. The more he thought about things, the more he realized how unlikely they were to go his way. He just really wanted his phone to ring so he could stop thinking, and get to  _doing_  something. He wanted his phone to ring he wanted his phone to ring he wanted his phone to  _ring_ —

It didn't ring.

Clint waited another twenty aggravating minutes, in which time he had finished his cigarette, placed his phone on his forehead, and started picking out pictures in the clouds. When it rang, it vibrated off his forehead, and nearly clattered to the balcony.

" _Finally_ ," he grunted, answering the call and putting the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Barton. I got a call from Mendez. He says that the whole thing is lined up, that you just gotta take the truck down to the shop and get yourself a pretty penny."

"Wha— _I_  gotta drive the truck down there?" He sat up, scowling. "What the hell's the point of a middle man, then, Walter? I've been there enough as is. Just because he couldn't bother himself to get up an' walk out of his office to meet me, doesn't mean I should risk my neck."

"I _know,_  I know, I don't like it neither. His rules, though. Mendez won't do business with someone who doesn't go all the way through. Plus you've never actually met the guy, yeah? Then he wants to get a read on you, face to face. He's got some thing about reading people, or whatever."

Clint rolled his eyes, and grit his teeth.  _Typical._  Things couldn't just go nice and neat, could they? Every basic instinct he had was screaming that he shouldn't do it, but he  _needed the money._  This shipment alone was enough to take care of him for a month, as long as he didn't do something extra stupid and blow it all.

"So he'll have the money ready? I won't hafta wait around for another shipment to sell before I get paid, or some shit, right?"

"Nah, he says he got it. And Barton, trust me, for all his nit picks, Mendez is a good guy. Someone you definitely wanna be in bed with."

"Right. Thanks for calling."

Clint rolled his eyes as he hung up, and hoisted himself to his feet. He hated having to work with fences he didn't know. They always thought the world revolved on their time and their preferences, everyone else be damned.

He left his apartment and climbed into the truck he had parked a block or so away, and drove to the store. He parked in the alley around back, where a large door allowed entrance for shipping trucks like the one he was driving. Clint hopped out of the car, and entered the building, calling out for Mendez.

The shop wasn't really a  _shop,_  but more of a small warehouse. It was filled with neat lines of shelving filled with an assortment of items. It was like walking into the cross of a bulk store and a consignment shop, as everything seemed to have a distinctly second hand feel to it.

"Barton, that you?"

A man appeared towards the front of one of the aisles, and walked back to him. He was tall, and his face was dark with deep lines that spoke of a lot of hard work and more than a few fist fights. His black hair was long enough to pull back into a pony tail, though a few strands had come loose and were falling around his face.

Clint gave a cool nod to the man, but gave in to the hand offered him.

"Clint Barton, yeah."

"Charlie Mendez, good to meet you."

"Yeah, likewise," Clint said, hoping his smile didn't look as annoyed as he felt. Of course the man's smile seemed to be glued to his face, now that Clint had a truck of goods in the back. He wondered if Mendez was just smiling to piss him off more.

"Walt said these were new?"

"Mm-hm, fresh stock."

" _Excellent._  That I can use. There was no problem getting it through, right?"

"Nope, not a bit. I just don't like having that much on me, y'know?"

"I get it, I get it."

They stopped in front of the truck, and Clint opened the back to reveal the stacks of jeans. Mendez gave a soft whistle, then pulled himself inside of the truck.

"That's great, Barton, real great. All sorts a places I can send these," he said absently, pulling a pair off the top of a stack.

"Thanks. You need me to help unload them, or...?"

"What? Oh, nah, I got some boys to deal with that." He whistled again, this time loud enough to call a man to the door, and he waved at him.

"Mike, you go get a couple a other guys to unload this thing, pronto." The man nodded, then disappeared back into the shop.

"Yeah, so they'll take care of all a this, and drop off the truck. You picked it up from the usual place, right?"

"Mason's, yeah."

"So, you'll be wantin' to be paid," Mendez said, dropping back down to the ground beside Clint.

"Won't say no to that," Clint said, giving another thin smile. He only had so much time for the chit-chat today.

Mendez chuckled and pulled a thick envelope from his back pocket. Clint took it without a word, and restrained himself from checking it over. Walter had been clear that Clint was  _not_ to question the man's honesty, if he wanted to keep doing business. Clint noticed Mendez's eyes on him until the money vanished in Clint's pocket, his smile glassy. Seemed Walter had been right.

"Thanks for this, really, but I gotta go." Clint shook Mendez's hand again, and quickly headed towards the nearest subway entrance. The first thing he planned to do was get rid of the thousands of dollars in his pocket, and then he would be off to Natasha's.

Natasha's smile tasted like sunshine when she opened the door. She immediately complained that  _he_  tasted like an ashtray, to which he offered a careless grin. His bad mood was already falling away. Her place was starting to feel more like home than his own apartment, which he figured wasn't really a bad thing. His place, for one, didn't look like it came out of a magazine, perfect and expensive. It also didn't have Natasha in it.

"How are you?" she asked, heading to the living room. The door to the balcony was open, letting in a soft breeze.

"Good enough," he sighed, flopping into a chair. "Been jumpin' through hoops all day, but some are like that, y'know?"

"What for?"

"Work," he said, looking up at the ceiling and closing his eyes. He vaguely heard the muffled sound of Natasha sitting on the couch, and picking up a book.

"What happened?"

"Oh, just some people being idiots. I had to wait around for them to finish the job, which wasn't really a problem, I just like getting my stuff  _done._ I don't wanna dick around for no reason."

He could feel Natasha's mild disapproval at the phrase, to which he cracked open an eye and tossed her a cheeky smile. She gave a mock huff, and looked back at the sketchbook in her lap.

Now that her own workload had eased, she was constantly scribbling in the thing. He had only managed a glance at the pages in passing, a few snatches of people walking, the side of a building, a cluster of what looked like Natasha's hands. She was strangely protective of the thing, casually hiding the pages whenever he passed, or shifting it underneath something to send the message that he was not to look at it.

Natasha's phone rang, and she stood to go get it. He listened to her speaking, the words too quiet to make any sense. She moved into the kitchen, searching through the drawer for something.

Clint glanced over at her. She had her back turned, and appeared to be writing something down.

He eased up out of his chair, and moved over to the sketchbook. It was a simple little thing, about the size of an average reading book with a black cover. He picked it up, scanning the edge of the pages. Little marks scattered across them, from pencils, markers, and what looked like paint in a few places. Several of the pages were buckled, making misshapen gaps against the other pages.

Clint opened the book. He frowned when he saw the blank page, and flipped back. A pencil sketch of a

bookshelf greeted him, the lines delicate and neat. The wall behind it was a dark grey, making the pale spines of the books pop out. He glanced over his shoulder at the book case against the wall. The likeness was good, though he noticed that it had probably been drawn a few weeks ago. One of the bowls in the picture hadn't been on the bookshelf since April.

The book was pulled from his hands, making him jump. He snapped his head around to see Natasha, walking around the coffee table, the sketchbook in her hands.

"That wasn't an invitation," she said. Her voice was mild, but he could  _feel_ something underneath it. She wasn't upset that had he looked, but she clearly wasn't thrilled, either.

Natasha put the sketchbook on her work desk, then came to sit back down on the couch.

"Are you going to sit?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at him. Clint glanced down at himself. He was still standing between the coffee table and the couch. He sat down beside her.

"I'm sorry I didn't ask," he said, looking at her. Natasha kept her gaze on her hands. He paused, then said, "It was a good, though. The bookshelf."

"It was alright," she corrected, but her voice sounded absent. "I was bored, and I needed to practice my still lifes."

"And?"

"I got practice," she said, turning to smile at him. Clint grinned back.

There was a slight pause, then Clint slung an arm around her, and rested his head against her shoulder. Natasha didn't say anything, but he was certain her could feel her relaxing into him.

"Why don't you draw faces?" he asked. Natasha turned her head to look at him, apparently taken by surprise.

"Hm?"

"You never draw faces," he said, gesturing at her sketchbook. "Don't paint them, either. I was just wondering why."

Natasha sighed and shifted in her seat, clearly stalling for time.

"I used to," she admitted, voice sounding distant. "When I was younger, before I came here, I used to paint portraits, all the time."

"Did something happen?"

"Not really. I just…lost interest. The body holds just as much expression as the face, and it can tell an even bigger story. That's what really caught my attention. Being able to tell someone's story, just by showing how they hold themselves."

The words stacked behind his teeth, but Clint resolutely did not ask her what story his body told, with its scars and scrapes, and the way he never quite grew out of edging around big, violent men.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to think about something so messy as his past. He wanted the clean, concise opportunities Natasha offered, he wanted the peace. He wanted the happiness.

"When I painted people's faces, they looked sad," Natasha confessed, the words coming out quickly, as if she might lose her nerve. "They looked very…they looked sad."

Clint didn't say anything, wondering at the way her voice caught at the end.

"That picture of your muse didn't really have a face, either," he said, realization dawning over him. Natasha shifted, but didn't say anything. He took that as a signal to not press the subject.

He had gotten the impression that she had painted that particular picture before she moved to New York. Natasha must have noticed her paintings looked unhappy for a while, then, if she had stopped showing their faces that long ago.

Clint wondered just what had happened, to make her so sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint, buddy, you've got some problems. Probably want to get those checked out. Thankfully, Nat seems to also have her own bundle, so at least you'll have company :'D
> 
> One thing that I really liked about this chapter was that I got to show just how selfish Clint is. I feel like that's a pretty strong undercurrent of his character, even though he practically kills himself to help everyone else out. He wants what he wants, and, at least for this story, he has learned that if he doesn't grab it, it won't be given to him. One thing that he hasn't had a lot of in particular has been positive relationships, so he is pretty darn eager to make it work with Natasha, even if it means not being really honest with her.


	6. caught from the side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO I did not forget about this why would you even ask that. With that said, I am very excited for this chapter. This is where we migrate away from just being cute fluff and cuddles to cute fluff and cuddles with a bit of plot and intrigue thrown in, which is always nice.

Natasha was just cleaning up her work station when the phone rang. She set down the canvas that she had been holding, then walked over to the phone.

"Hello?"

" _Ah, Natalia, it does my bones good to hear you."_

Natasha felt like someone had just reached inside of her, and ripped out her stomach.

She leaned over, bracing herself against the counter with one hand, while the other clenched around the phone, terrified of letting go.

" _It's been, oh, how long now? Three, four years? That's a long time, especially for us."_

"What do you want?" she whispered, because there was no point in bothering with  _how_  her uncle had found her. With his resources and his devilishly brilliant mind, there were any number of ways he could have found her. She had just been hoping that it would take a little bit longer.

" _Things just haven't been the same without you here, Nia. In fact, I haven't—"_

 _"I asked, what do you want?"_ she repeated, this time in Russian. She could feel her uncle's smile through the phone, a little victory he had stolen from her mouth.

" _Am I not allowed to call on family any more?_ "

" _Not me,"_ she said, because there really was no point in beating around the fact. She had run away and he had found her. That was all there really was with their story.

" _I must say, that was a bold move, leaving me there on the docks. Clever, too. Moving back to New York was clever as well, but your choice of identity could use some work. Shockingly unoriginal, for such a talented girl. Natasha Romanoff, indeed."_

 _"I wasn't trying to change who I was,"_ she said tartly, mouth twisted in a hard line, because she had forgotten how much she  _despised_  actually dealing with her uncle. Before, she could deal with it fine, as fear and dependence had kept her in check. Now, however, she had grown a little, and his condescending tone grated against her skin.  _"I was simply trying to buy myself time."_

 _"To get rid of that painting?"_ he asked, the words sharp like a dagger pressed against her throat.

" _Uncle Demyan, I don't want any problems."_

_"Good. Then you will give it back, and we will be on our way. It's quite fortunate that I managed to talk our buyer down from liquidating all of our good work."_

_"You salvaged the deal?"_ she asked, a little deflated and a little impressed. The buyer had been borderline nationalistic in his pride for Russia, and had commissioned her uncle to procure a number of pieces the man thought personified Russian history. The Vereshchagin had been the last one on the list, and therefore the most highly anticipated. Natasha had been aggressively hoping that his wrath at Demyan apparently bungling the con would have stolen her some more time to settle into the woodwork. Clearly, not enough.

" _Of course. Nia, going back on a deal is never something that you can claim came from me. I see my work through to the end."_

 _"I don't have it,"_ she said, voice bold and casual and exactly what she needed. She could feel Demyan's unimpressed silence through the phone.

" _Then you've burned it, because that Vereshchagin has not turned up_ anywhere _, unless you managed to procure a private buyer_ and _a fence that doesn't talk, and we both know that just doesn't exist. Or, perhaps you've become a fence as well, is that what you're telling me? You orchestrated your escape so beautifully, only to be caught less than two years later?"_

 _"I don't have it,"_ she ground out, feeling the stolen painting whisper to her from its storage unit across town. That damn painting was going to be the death of her.

" _Pity. That was perhaps the only thing that could buy your way back into the life. To think, in all my life, a Vereshchagin would be the most expensive thing I handled."_

 _"Why would I run if I wanted to stay?"_ she spat, sourly thinking of the bounty he had placed on her head. It was virtually impossible for Natasha to deal in her underworld contacts these days, what with the impressive price her uncle had attached to her. She had learned how to exist in the world without perfect scoundrels, but it had been a very hard, ungracious process.

" _I can't claim to imagine. Your head has proven far too twisted for me to grasp,"_  he sighed, and Natasha grit her teeth.  _She_  wasn't the one encouraging criminals to sell out her only remaining relative.

" _Demyan, tell me what you want. I don't have the paint—"_

 _"Stop lying,"_ he said, voice so, so cold. " _I know you have it, but because I am a patient man, I will give you some time to remember what you did with it. One month, Natalia. You have one month to give me that painting, or there will be_ hell _to pay."_

 _"I've already paid it, every day of my life I spent bound to you,"_ she spat back, throwing daggers of her own. Demyan scoffed on the other end of the line.

" _However you wish to see it. Either way, I want that painting. Maybe, if you're a good girl, I'll even be able to get you back in touch with your friend. He's no longer in Russia, now, but over in—"_

Natasha hung up the phone, practically slamming it down into the cradle. She whirled away from it and held herself, trying to tame her breathing, trying not to scream and cry and break the nearest thing.

He had found her. Demyan had  _found her,_  and he was giving her a month to give back the Vereshchagin. This was not at all part of her plan, she had intended to get  _rid_  of the damn thing long before he ever caught up. What was he going to do if she didn't give it back? What was he going to do if she  _did_? Natasha's only real safety net was the fact that she knew where the painting was, and he didn't. If he tried to do anything to her, she could conceivably destroy it, and thus lose him a fortune and make an enemy out of his former client. But she  _knew_  Demyan. He would hurt her in a way that she could never be able to combat via burning a painting.

Natasha crouched down, bracing herself against the wall of the counter. She could run, maybe, but he knew where she was, he knew her  _phone number._  Doubtlessly, he would have eyes on her, he would know everything she was doing. He probably  _had_  known for a good time before reaching out to her. What could he use against her, though? She neatly abided the law, she was a legal citizen, she hadn't even gotten so much as a speeding ticket. Yes, she had committed numerous crimes in the past, but that had been in  _Russia,_  and there was no way Demyan could incriminate her without also indicating himself.

Natasha pressed her forehead against her knees, trying not to scream. She couldn't do this. She couldn't go up against the ruthless might of her uncle, she just wasn't cut out for it. That was why she had run away, because, unlike him, Natasha felt  _guilt_  over carelessly swindling people. Not always, but sometimes she would look back as she made her romantic and fantastic getaway, she would look back and see their victims' eyes, and it would break her every time. Just a little bit, but after a while, all of those tiny little spiderweb cracks had reached each other and broken off the part of her wanted to cheat others. She couldn't do this. But she couldn't stand to let herself submit, either, because then he would draw her in, even tighter.

She grit her teeth, barely resisting the urge to yank at her hair. She liked it there, in New York. She liked getting her tea every afternoon, she liked looking out of her balcony at the quiet, artistic little community around her, she liked finding new paintings for her walls and drawing people on the subway and sitting on her couch and talking to Clint. She liked having a home she actually wanted to go back to every night.

But she couldn't have it anymore. If she didn't give Demyan the painting, he would ruin everything for her, in some wicked, quiet, horrible way. And if she did…well, it would only be a short matter of time before she was sucked back in, whisked away by his plans and charm and soulless rewards. Natasha's home wouldn't be a home anymore, it would be a resting place, a safehouse that he would come in and destroy because he could. Natasha wanted to slam her fists into her thighs, because  _this wasn't what she had worked for._  She hadn't risked  _everything_ , just so he could catch her and coerce her back into a life she detested. She hadn't worked to be normal, just so she could become a criminal.

Natasha tried to get up and distract herself, but she couldn't. She tried to finish cleaning up her work space, but she found herself picking things up, then setting them back down. Painting was aggressively not an option, as it would only flash her back to the hours she had spent, laboring under Demyan's harsh tutelage, trying to make her art look like a master's.

He had cracked open her ribs and slipped into her chest and ruined  _everything._  Her head was buzzing with anxiety and her skin was itching from stress and she did not want to deal with any of it. She wanted to go crawl into bed and close her eyes and be able to continue about her life when she opened them. She had given up the thieving, the lies, and the impossible escapes. She had given all of that up when she had thrown away the oppressive hand of her uncle, the days without sleep, and the quiet dread about arrest, death, and betrayal that had curled up into her bones every second of her day. She was no longer supposed to be attached.

Natasha dropped onto her couch, feeling like she might cry. It had all been  _so good._  And then it hadn't.

She leaned over and grabbed up her sketchbook, because it didn't feel  _real,_  suddenly, the four years she had spent alone seemed like a strange little lie that she had dreamed up. She needed proof, she needed to know that the apartment and her business and her  _life_  weren't just a joke.

Natasha thumbed through the pages, skimming over small notes and quick sketches of unsuspecting neighbors. It sort of worked, because as she glanced over the drawings, Natasha remembered each moment, the bright green collar on the lap dog she had drawn while waiting in the post office, the cold wind that had tossed the curly blonde hair of a girl walking past Natasha's table one afternoon, the way Clint had been lounging in her armchair when she had sketched his hands, taking time over each knuckle, vein, and scar.

She closed the book, and dropped it back onto the coffee table. She frowned at the wall for a long moment, then stumbled to a decision.

Without looking down, Natasha dragged her cellphone from her pocket. She thumbed through the contacts, and dialed before she could reconsider. The phone rang several times, then clicked over to voice message.

" _Yeah, this is Clint. Leave a message."_

Natasha closed her eyes, mouth opening for words she hadn't even thought of. It was almost sad, how much she wanted to be able to speak to someone who knew about her and what she had done, but didn't  _know._  She wanted someone who understood some of the gravity of her uncle's phone call, someone who understood just how far she had come, without seeing the exact filth she had had to haul herself out of to do it.

She bit her lip, trying to see if the sounds would come out. It took a moment, but after a ragged breath, she whispered, "Can you come over? I…I'd like…it'd be nice."

She swallowed and hung up the phone, then set it on the couch next to her. Her hands were shaking, though she didn't know if it was because of her horror at her uncle's reappearance in her life, or at the fact that she had quite frankly whispered her weakness into Clint's phone, or that she was just so  _tired_  of doing this over and over and over again.

Natasha didn't cry. She didn't cry as she stared at the wall, too miserable to do anything. But she did draw her legs up to her chest, wrap her arms around them, and hold herself very, very tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the character development this chapter shows. I've kind of showed all of Natasha's evolution within the chapter, here, because we see her being in the unhealthy, manipulative relationship with her uncle, to being very isolated and suspicious while finding her feet, and then opening up a little bit, becoming brave enough to openly challenge her uncle, and then trust Clint with her anxiety. I just love seeing Natasha in a healthy, stable place, and I can't wait to write more about it :D


	7. listen to this midnight confessional

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like this chapter. I tweaked it at the last moment, thanks to some comments from the lovelies at TheBetaBranch, and it just comes together as a very nice, cohesive chapter :D

Clint jerked awake when his phone screen kicked on and lit the room with an obnoxious, very bright light. He stared at it for a long moment, then flopped back into his pillow. He didn't have to answer it. He could just roll back over and ignore it and deal with it later  _after he went back to sleep._ He could do it. He was totally within his rights to.

He heaved a mental groan, and slapped his hand down on his nightstand until he found his phone. He squinted at the screen, trying to make it stumble into words. It was from Natasha.

_Did you get my voicemail?_

Normally, he would have just ignored it and gone about his merry way back to sleep, but one, this was  _Natasha,_  and two, she had already left a voicemail, so clearly she wanted to talk to him. He vaguely remembered seeing the alert earlier in the day, but then things had happened and he had completely neglected to get to it. Clint pressed his face into his pillow, groaned out loud, then unlocked his phone and turned the damn screen's brightness  _way_  down.

This wasn't the first time Natasha had sent him texts in the middle of the night. At first, it appeared to be because she was just bored while working an all-nighter. He, in turn, had been blurry-eyed and half asleep when the first one had shown up, but he had responded, and she sent another text, and he responded, and on until she finally informed him that her work was done, and that she wished him a good night. After that first time, she had texted him because she couldn't sleep, the messages appearing late into the night. Clint had to admit that he kind of loved the covert texts. They were typically short but sincere, full of Natasha's tiny, self-satisfied smiles. Her texts were always concise and weirdly philosophical, but she didn't seem to mind his semi-conscious, brief, and sometimes senseless responses.

It had only happened a couple of times, but whenever it did, he felt exceptionally privileged. Clint had once stayed up all night just to keep texting with her, which he felt was a pretty serious sign of his commitment, because he  _hated_  missing his sleep. Natasha, if she ever found out, should feel  _very_  honored at his level of sacrifice.

This did not feel quite like any of those other midnight text sessions.

 _Not yet,_  he thumbed in, and sent it to Natasha.

A new text came in, almost casual in its brevity.

_It's fine, you can just delete it._

Clint frowned at the screen. Now he wanted to know what the voicemail had been about. He would have expected her to give an explanation, or at least not text him at  _oh **hell**  was he committed _two in the morning. He heaved a sigh, and pawed around his nightstand until he found the case for his hearing aids. He put one in, and worked his way to her voicemail.

" _Can you come over? I…I'd like…it'd be nice."_

She sounded small and uncertain, if not scared. He frowned. Clint had heard Natasha sound irritated, and maybe even a little worried _,_ but nothing like  _this_.

_Do you need me over there?_

It took almost a minute for Natasha to respond back.

_If you want to._

Clint was already out of bed and pulling on his pants when her message made his phone buzz.

Little under a half hour later, Clint knocked on Natasha's door. She opened it and let him in, smile thin and not quite up to the lie she was trying to sell.

"What is it?" he asked, voice still rough from sleep. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. The apartment felt weirdly bright, after the muted street lamps and dim subway station.

"I don't really—I'm not sure how to—do you want something to drink?" Natasha asked, looking at him in a way that begged that he give her  _time_ , because she didn't know how to handle this. He frowned at her.

"Whatever you have, is fine," he said, and she nodded, whirling away to the fridge. Clint glanced around her apartment. Things looked alright, at least, nothing was broken or out of place, but there was this ugly tension hanging in the air that he didn't like. Her voicemail had been made in the late afternoon. He hoped things hadn't felt like  _this_  since then.

Natasha set his glass in front of him on the counter, then she leaned back and fidgeted with her hands. He watched her a moment, because this was  _her_  time, he was only there because she had asked. Natasha stared at his hands as he picked up his glass, and then gestured at the couch with the same sort of strained edge as when she had spoken.

"Would you like to sit?"

"Yeah, sure," Clint said, and carried his water to the living room. He sat down heavily, and set the cup down on the glass top of the coffee table. Natasha came to sit beside him, but she remained stiff, hands held in her lap as she stared straight ahead.

"I woke you up," she said, pursing her lips at a potted plant.

"Yeah."

"It was two in the morning."

"And now it's almost three."

"Why're you here?" She turned to face him, expression dark and confused and maybe even a bit hopeful. Clint shrugged, and leaned back against the cushions.

"I dunno. You asked?"

"That's not—" Natasha looked away, clearly on the verge of saying it wasn't a good enough reason, but he was there and that was all he had and she knew it. She was sitting very close to him, their sides brushing against each other. Clint didn't shift away.

"I'm sorry for waking you up, Clint. I…don't know how to do this, this isn't—I'm not really sure what to—please just give me time," she said, and he knew she was asking it off herself, more than him. He wondered if her anxiety was more over whatever had happened, or wanting to tell him and not knowing how.

Clint gave her a smile. It wasn't exactly like his time was a hot commodity. Natasha took a deep breath, glaring at her hands and trying to get the right words to come out. She was still wearing lipstick. It was three in the morning, and she was still wearing lipstick. Clint wondered if she had even considered going to bed.

"I really want—I just—there is something bothering me," she began, eyes closed as she forced the words out. "There is  _something_  that has just come up, and it is…very troublesome."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"No," she laughed, looking at him now. "I don't think there's anything  _anyone_  can do, not reasonably, at least."

"Then don't be reasonable," he laughed, because it was weird, thinking of Natasha, the former con artist, being bound by bizarre laws like  _reason._

Natasha smiled at him, again whacking him in the face with that earnest, open expression. He was convinced that look would be the death of him, someday. She would look at him like that, and then he would give in and do whatever she wanted and it would probably end horribly for him, but he  _really_  wouldn't care.

Natasha seemed to have puttered out of words to say, and he was suddenly hit with the realization that he really, really,  _really_  wanted to kiss her. He was pretty much officially her boyfriend, he could do that, right?

Clint kissed her like he was asking the question. He knew Natasha could feel it on his lips, because she smiled, kissing the word ' _yes'_  onto his mouth.

He kissed her a little harder, one hand finding her hip, the other pressing against her back. Natasha hooked her thumbs into his belt loops, and all he could think was that they had never kissed like this before. They had given little pecks here and there, and a few times Clint had decided to push his limits a little bit and sneak a few not-suitable-for-children ones, but this was Clint kissing Natasha and Natasha kissing back and her setting her knee between his legs and them losing balance so that they fell back on the couch.

Basically, it was a pretty okay development that he wasn't about to question.

Natasha was laughing into his mouth, and he would have called it giggling, if it wasn't a little hysteric and he could cram the concept of Natasha giggling into his brain. Clint kissed her neck, and ran his hand through her hair. It was all over, smelling like the girl shampoo that was a mix of flowers and something deliciously warm like vanilla. He listened to her breathe as he moved to the hollow of her throat, undoing a couple of the buttons on her shirt as he went.

Natasha had her hands under his shirt so that she was holding his sides. Her hips were pressed hard into his, and their legs were wrapped around each other, and his hands were pressed against the small of her back. Clint pushed his hands under her shirt, and ran his hands over the skin of her back. In one motion, he had grabbed it up and pulled it over her head.

He reveled in the feeling of their bare stomachs against each other, and while he was seriously enjoying her kissing his jaw, he thought that Natasha had maybe ten seconds to do the same to his shirt before he yanked it off himself.

"Clint."

He kissed her collarbones, then trailed to her sternum. The edge of her bra brushed against his lips, and he had the zipper of her skirt in his hand—

"Clint, stop, please,  _Clint._ "

Natasha pushed herself away from him, sitting up. He stared at her, hoping his expression as more  _'Natasha, what is it?',_  and less ' _what the hell?_ '

She wasn't looking at him. Her shoulders were hunched, and her hands clasped between her knees. His stomach twisted with how  _embarrassed_  she looked.

He shifted his leg from behind her back, and set up beside her.

"Uhm, Natasha? What…what's wrong?"

She shook her head, and when she laughed, he couldn't help but think how wild it sounded.

"Nothing, I just—I just—can we take it slow, here? I don't really…I'm not…" She cleared her throat, and looked at him. "I'm not sure this is…I'm not sure I'm ready."

He nodded at her, heart in his throat. Looking at her, with her hair a mess, and her lipstick smeared to hell and back, and her shirt barely hanging onto the back of the sofa, it all made Clint feel ashamed. He knew that he hadn't really done anything wrong, but  _still._

He dropped his gaze, and noticed that his pants had been undone. He didn't how it had happened, or who had even done it. He didn't dare face the shame of zipping them back up, because he wasn't  _that guy._

_Holy crap, Barton. Are you really that eager to get in her pants?_

"Here," he said, handing back her shirt. Natasha gave him a brief smile, and took it back. He didn't watch her put it back on.

"I'm sorry," she said in a huff. "I didn't mean to—I just don't—"

"It's fine," he said quickly, hoping to brush away any reason she might have to feel like she was at fault. " I shouldn't have…I didn't really…this is on me."

They were quiet for a moment, both of them just sitting there. Clint was itching to leap up and run away and get himself away from her, because he had screwed up he had let her see just how much of an  _animal_  he was and he didn't want her to know. But he also just wanted to wrap his arms around her and hug her until he couldn't breathe, because she had seen all of that, she had seen how  _ugly_  parts of him were, and yet she hadn't kicked him off the couch and out the door, she was sitting next to him and letting their thighs touch and their shoulders brush against each other, because she…trusted him?

"It's not because of you," Natasha said suddenly. "It's just…every time that I…most often—the last time I did this, it was for the job."

Clint glanced at her. Natasha took a breath, smoothing her hands across her lap.

"A distraction," she clarified. Her smile looked sickly. "We would need someone out of the way, and…there I was."

"Natasha…"

"No, it's fine, it was a choice I made. But now…I don't really…it's still a little too fresh in my head."

He stared at her, wishing that he could say or do something to make her feel better. He wanted to take all of that shame and fear and self-reproach in his hands and rip it away from her, so that she could just be  _happy_

He wrapped his arm around her, and squeezed her shoulders.

"You're fine," he said, and kissed her hair.

Natasha leaned her head against his chest, and Clint dragged his breaths in, then out, then in again, because she was about as damn close to setting her soul in his hands as she was likely to get, and he was so,  _so_  very aware of how easy it was to break it. He couldn't help but chase the scene around in his head. She had asked him over there to help. She was upset enough to be unable to properly explain. He kissed her and tried to take her clothes off.

What was  _wrong_  with him?

He closed his eyes, because he could do this, he could do this, he could take three steps with her on his back and not drop her, he could  _do_   _this_. It would just be as terrifying as hell until she got down again.

"Tell me something," Natasha whispered, shaking Clint out of his thoughts. He glanced at her, frowning.

"What?"

"Tell me something. Anything. Just…I'm not sure my thoughts are the right place for me, just now."

Clint gave a slow nod, swallowed, then scraped his brain for a story. He had plenty of  _stories_ , some of which were even amusing, but nothing that would really fit. He didn't have any parables or anything, he just had his life, and it was frankly depressing when it wasn't weird or even pathetic. But this was it, this was one of those painfully wonderful moments where she spoke to him and he spoke to her and it was just truth in the air between them. She had given him pieces of her story, and now she was setting up the stage for him to do the same. He had to do the same, he wanted to, he just had to find the words.

Clint held his breath for a moment, hoping inspiration would strike him, and when he exhaled, the words that filled the air were, "I never really learned how to do this."

"Hm?" Natasha was looking at him, now, frowning as she tried to understand what he meant. Clint sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He chewed on his cheek, trying to find the words to a thoughts he couldn't predict.

"I…when I was a kid, there wasn't much room for…I didn't really do comfort. I didn't give it, I didn't get it. There was just a blank space where it was supposed to be. So I'm, uh, I'm probably not the best at whatever it is you want, here. But then again, you probably already guessed that, given…what just happened."

"I didn't ask you here because you were the best," Natasha said, a bit of her usual attitude slipping back into her words. He could practically hear her eye roll.

"I  _know,_  I just…I'm letting you know. When things went bad, I tried to make them feel good. And that…well, you know how that ends. Again."

" _Clint._ "

"I know, I know, I just…my mom tried," he confessed, the words almost nonexistent in the air. Natasha was frozen against his side, listening so hard it nearly hurt. "She really, really tried, but, uh, my dad…he saw hugs, and kissin' booboos better, and crap, he saw that as stupid, girly stuff. Not meant for his boys. So my ma…she didn't really get a chance to teach me. Barney did, though, kind of. He didn't know much more about it than me, but he wasn't always bein' watched by Dad, so he could show that he cared more often. It was rough stuff, a 'rub some dirt on it' and a pat on the back, and him comin' over to wreck anybody that tried to hurt me, so there was that. He did great, considering."

"He sounds like a good man," Natasha said, nodding against his shoulder. Clint laughed, a soft, breathless thing, then nodded.

"Yeah, pretty good. Not always the best guy, but a good man. One time, I remember one time, after Dad had…after me an' Dad had had it out, Barney came and found me at the back of the house. He crouched down beside him, told me to clean my face, to get up and get on with it. And I told him I couldn't. I was, I dunno, maybe nine at the time, eight, he was twelve, and he just  _looked_  at me when I said that I couldn't, 'cause Dad would just come and make things bad again. And you know what he said?"

"Hm?"

"'Screw him. Screw Dad, 'cause you're gonna be all the things he ain't.' I never forgot that. My brother told me that I wasn't gonna be anything like our dad, and he had never lied about something so important yet. That's why I joined the circus."

"Because Barney told you not to be like your father?" He could feel the disbelief in Natasha's voice, because the  _circus_

"Kind of. The circus was fun, exciting,  _different_. I left high school, did the first thing I wanted to for the first time. 'Course, Dad hated it, and I never really asked Ma about what she thought, but Barney came to see the show. Anytime it was in town, or nearby, he'd come see me, say hi. He never told me I was doin' a dumb thing, he just asked if I was alright. Then, the last time, he said I should probably go to college, and after some thinkin', I did."

"And all of that because of your dad?"

"Yep. He really helped me, that way. Showed me exactly what I  _didn't_  want to be."

"I wish I could have—my uncle, he…he wasn't…he hung on a lot longer. He wouldn't let me just leave, he had to have me  _right there,_  right where he could see…"

She cut herself off, holding her breath for a long moment. Then she hissed it out, slow and offering no real release. She reached over and squeezed his and, offering him a smile that was a little bit less tight than before.

"I appreciate you coming here. I know it's not…I'm sorry for doing this to you. Dragging you out here, then making…asking you about all of that stuff, I'm sure it wasn't really, er, what you wanted to do with your night."

"Stop," he said, because he couldn't stand her being so  _decent_  when he—when he was just  _him._  "Natasha, you needed help, you still need it for all I know, and I came. That's my job, that's what I'm here for. You'd do the same."

Natasha looked at him, then, still frowning, but not upset like before. There was a question in her eyes that seemed uncomfortably like  _would I really_? And then she nodded, responding to both of them.

"Yeah, I just—I'm not really used to it. I promise I will explain, I just don't...know how."

"Well, when you figure it out, you can talk to me," he said, giving her a smile. He yawned, and ran a hand over his face. "D'you need anything else?"

"You're going home?"

"Uhm, maybe? I mean, if you want to hear more about me, as a distraction from whatever it is you've got going on, but, uhm like I said I'm not…the best at this. It's all up to you, really."

"No," Natasha said, straightening. "No, I can't just yank you out here and then send you away."

"You  _did_  also give me a glass of water," he reminded, which only made her purse her lips at him.

"No, you'll sleep here. Unless you  _want_  to go all the way back to your apartment?"

"Not really?"

"Okay. Then I have a spare bedroom."

"Uhm, thanks?"

Natasha nodded and stood up, clearly working her way back into territory she could command. She guided Clint into the spare bedroom, which was neat and had an already made bed. From what he could see in the dark, the room had minimal furnishings, but a nice window with a seat built into the wall. There was a painting on the wall, but it was too dark for him to make out its subject.

"The linen closet is right here," Natasha said, pointing at a small door in the hallway. "Extra pillows and blankets are in there."

"Thanks," he repeated, because he wasn't quite sure what he was doing or where he was supposed to go from there. He felt like there was something else he should say, something that pushed away all of the discomfort from his screw up, and the anxiety she was feeling over her mystery problem, and the heavy allusions toward his wretched childhood. But all he could think was that he kind of wanted to go back to sitting on the couch, feeling that strange, and possibly misplaced amount of trust flowing out of Natasha and into his skin (also that he wasn't exactly certain how he felt about the idea of her tucking him into bed, but he certainly wasn't opposed to it).

Natasha nodded, lingering in his doorway for a few moments, then gave a small shrug as if to remind herself what she was doing.

"Well, uhm, if you need me…my room is right next door," she said, voice trailing away. She clearly didn't want to be alone, but he had the intense feeling that she needed breathing room, before one of them did something even more compromising.

Natasha turned to leave, but Clint called after her, reaching out as if to catch her hand. She paused, glancing back at him.

"I'm sorry, about…what happened. I really didn't mean to push you, I'm just…I'm a lot simpler than you might like. I'm sorry."

Natasha didn't say anything at first, but she did nod, and smile in a way that said she understood.

"Good night, Clint. And…thank you for coming." He smiled at her, and watched her walk back to her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing Clint's story. There an awkward layer to it all, because he still feels this huge disparity between him and Natasha, but I feel like he's more comfortable with her. He definitely trusts her, but he's starting to pick up on the fact that her life isn't as luxurious and amazing as he used to think.


	8. honey, your smiles are nice against mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a little sugary fluff 'n stuff to keep you warm during the winter~

Clint sighed at the ceiling, not wanting to get out of bed, but also not really wanting to stay. The clock told him it was late morning, but Natasha didn't seem to be moving around, yet. He could still feel the conversation from last night brushing against him, but he wasn't sure if it was a good or a bad thing. She hadn't chased him out of the house, but he wasn't sure he wanted the grit of their lives hanging around their heads. He had been quite comfortable with the sterilized version of themselves they had been using, it made things much sweeter. Clint could pretend that things weren't so bad,  _and yet._  And yet he liked the little thrill of pressing his secrets to Natasha's mouth and her doing the same to him and both of them taking them in and accepting them. Hopefully the sulking anxiety in his stomach would learn to go away as well.

He pushed himself upright, legs hanging off the edge of the bed. He scrubbed his hands through his hair, then heaved himself upright. He put in his hearing aids, then glanced around for his clothes. Clint had already pulled on his pants, and was about to put on his shirt, when he felt the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. He sighed, then wandered out into the main room of Natasha's apartment.

It looked different, now, without her in it. Bright summer sunshine was coming through her floor to ceiling windows, making huge squares of light on the carpet and furniture. Clint walked through the living room, and opened the door to her balcony. He shut the door behind him, and lit a cigarette.

Clint leaned against the railing as he took a drag, eyes wandering over her neighborhood. The whole place suited Natasha, as it was a blend of classic architecture and modern innovations. Solar panels peaked at him from some rooftops, while the weathered brick faces stood firm as ever. He grinned at himself as he spotted the vines she had mentioned on one of their first outings together, remembering how she had lightly complained about being unable to mix the right colors for her painting.

He dragged in on the cigarette, suddenly feeling strangely and wildly lucky to have stumbled upon her. The residual anxiety from earlier was starting to wash away, and while he wouldn't say he was  _comfortable_  with where things stood, he could certainly see himself quickly adjusting to it.

"I thought I made it clear that my home was a smoke free environment," Natasha said, voice drifting out from the cracked door. He glanced around, and gave her a smile. She was dressed for the day, in loose cotton pants and a tank top. Her hair had been carelessly tugged into a ponytail. He sort of liked the look, and how  _relatable_  it made Natasha seem, with all of her less than perfect edges on display.

"Morning."

"Good morning," she said, pushing the door open farther so she could lean against the frame. She kept a critical eye on his cigarette, which made his lips quirk even more.

" _Technically,_  I'm not in your house."

"No, you're on my patio. So you  _technically_  can't come inside until you don't smell like a bar."

"I feel like this is some weird plot to watch me without my shirt on," he said, pointedly talking around the cigarette. "Which _,_  you should know, was done so not  _everything_  about me would smell like cigarettes."

"How unceasingly thoughtful," she deadpanned, but then broke into a smile after a bit of prodding. Clint moved over to wrap his arms around her, but she raised a hand, firmly holding him a few feet away.

"You're not infecting me with that smell."

"It's not going to  _infect_  you," he scoffed, but he held himself back, for her sake.

"Would you like breakfast?" she asked, stepping back inside and giving up her ban of him in the house.

"That would be  _really_  awesome," Clint said, stubbing out his cigarette on the railing, and stepping inside after her.

"It's almost noon, so you can have either a late breakfast, or an early lunch. But, I can't vouch for the breakfast foods I actually have," Natasha warned, disappearing into the kitchen.

"Do you have orange juice?"

"Yes," she said, after a quick check in the fridge.

"Then anything you have can be breakfast."

Natasha poked her head over the bar to shoot him a look, to which he just shrugged.

"I am a simple man, Natasha."

She scoffed, and then went back to preparing something for them to eat. Clint went back to the spare room to grab his shirt, then stopped off in the bathroom to clean the smell of smoke off of his skin. Once he was suitably clean, Clint returned to the living room and flopped down into his armchair. He briefly wished he had another cigarette, just so he had something to do with his hands, but then he noticed that Natasha's sketchbook was laying open on the coffee table. He paused, suddenly excited by the opportunity facing them, and was already reaching for it when he recalled all of his other attempts to look at her sketches.

"Hey, Tasha?" he called, trying to sound casual.

"Hm?" came back from the kitchen.

"Can I look at your sketchbook?"

"It's there, isn't it?" she asked, voice sounding like she was trying very hard not to smile. Clint's mouth quirked when he realized that this time, the book on the table had been an invitation had been an invitation.

He picked up the sketchbook, careful, like it might break in his hands. He examined it, the slightly crinkled cover, a couple places where it has been folded, then smoothed back out.

Clint glanced through it, picking a few pages here and there. It was amazing, every page with something on it. Little notes were written in the free space, quotes, dates, reminders to herself, all cobbled together in English and Cyrillic. Then there were the drawings. Some were quick sketches, of people on the subway, of birds perched on a phone line, and then more in-depth studies, of statues and buildings. One drawing that particularly caught his attention seemed to have been drawn on the Brooklyn Bridge, like Natasha had sketched little pieces day by day as the view passed.

Despite having filled the entirety of a page before moving on, it didn't seem messy or crowded. Natasha's sketching style was clean and simple, emphasizing open space and firm, yet slight lines. Sometimes she added color with colored pencil or paint, but mostly it was just black and white, drawings of people and places. Here, Natasha didn't seem afraid of drawing faces, as she had entire pages filled with people's features, their eyes and their mouths and their hands. On one page, Clint found a pair of hands, holding a mug like it was the most important thing in the world.

He stared at the picture, not recognizing them at first, but then noticed the small scar on the outside of the left wrist. He glanced at his own wrist, blinking when he realized that they were his own. He remembered the day Natasha had drawn this. He had been sitting at the counter, she curled up at the edge of the couch, legs drawn up to support her sketchbook. She had been too far away to see the scar, but she must have added it in from memory. He was weirdly touched at the gesture.

Clint flipped to the last page, only to find another surprise. It was him again, slouching against her balcony railing with his shirt off. The view was from behind, as though she had been sitting in that exact chair as she had drawn him.

"Food's ready," Natasha called. Clint set the sketchbook down, and walked over to the counter.

"Looks good," he said, glancing over the plates of scrambled eggs and sausage links. "Looks  _really_  good."

"Thanks," she said, giving a small smile. "I don't usually get to cook for other people, so I'm not really sure…"

"No, seriously," Clint said, dropping into a stool and scooping up a forkful of egg. "My scrambled eggs are pretty crappy, compared to this. You have freakin'  _veggies_  in them."

"Just some chives and tomatoes," Natasha said defensively, like she wasn't  _really_  that much of a better cook than him. Clint rolled his eyes, and started eating. His quiet  _'oh my gosh_ ' of pleasure was enough to make Natasha turn away to hide her smile.

They ate brunch, sometimes talking, but mostly enjoying the food. Clint refused to let Natasha clean the dishes with him, saying that the cook wasn't allowed to clean up after herself. When he was finished, he went and joined her back in the living room. She was sitting on the arm of his chair, and promptly slid onto his lap when he was settled.

"These are really good," Clint said, leaning over to pick up her sketchbook again. "I dunno why you kept hiding them."

"Of course they're good. And I wasn't  _hiding_  them, I just—"

"Didn't want me to see. Is that 'cuz I'm in here?"

"Maybe a little," she admitted, leaning against him. He opened her sketchbook to the last page, eyes scanning over the drawing of him. Rather than tease her about it, he flipped to the front of the book.

"It's a little darker up here," he noted. Her shading was heavier, her lines broader, filling up more of the space. It was a slight change, he hadn't noticed it at first, but things almost seemed…melancholic.

"I had a darker muse," she allowed, running her thumb over the edge of the page. Clint nodded, remembering their conversation about her old boyfriend. The painting she had shown him, dark and chaotic and painfully alive jumped back at Clint. Had  _all_  of her paintings been like that?

"Wait."

"What?" Natasha asked, like she already knew what was coming.

" _Wait._ "

" _What,_  Clint?"

"You had a darker muse. Does that mean  _I'm_  you muse, now?"

"I don't know," she mumbled, hiding her face in his neck. He pushed her upright, staring at her with a slight smile on his face.

"I'm your  _muse_ , now? Sorry, I thought I was just your boyfriend, but  _no_ , I got upgraded and I didn't even know it!"

"Calm down," she said, rolling her eyes. "Weren't you the one scoffing at the whole idea?"

"At the idea of you having one, yeah, but it's freakin' awesome when it's me. People are probably going to write documentaries on you, and entire sections will be about me, I just want you to know that."

"You're ridiculous," she sighed, settling back against his chest. Clint smirked, but wrapped his arms back around her.

"So, when did this muse thing start? Like, was it from the first time we met, or after we started dating? This is important stuff, I wanna know how long I've been influencing you."

"I swear, if you mention it one more time, you're going home," Natasha threatened, which only made him laugh.

They were quiet for a long time, just sitting together and enjoying each other's company. Clint was beginning to wonder if he was going to end up staying at Natasha's apartment all day (not that he would mind), when his phone buzzed. He shifted Natasha so he could reach his pocket, then opened the text message.

"What is it?" Natasha asked, glancing at his phone.

"It's Barney," he said, turning off the screen. "He sent me the time for my nephew's birthday party."

"Oh? When is that?"

"In a week. He's turning eleven."

"That sounds like fun."

"Oh, you have no idea," Clint chuckled. "I swear, Barney gets more into it than the kid. He goes all out, balloons, a big cake, a slip'n'slide or somethin' for the kids, it's great."

"I've never been to a party like that."

"Yeah? You wanna come?" he asked, tilting his head slightly to look at her. Natasha blinked at him, as if trying to understand.

"To his party?"

"Yep. I mean, we've been going out for a while now, and they still've never met you. Well, Barney has, but you were just 'that painter lady', not  _Natasha._  Do…you not want to go?" Clint asked, sudden anxiety leaping into his chest at the thought. Had his stories put her off, made her not want to see the well-meaning but potentially dysfunctional Barney and the family he had made?

"No, it sounds like fun, I just…I do not know if I would really fit."

"You'd be  _fine._  Wouldn't be a ritzy place like you're probably used to, but it'll be fun. They're good people."

"Okay…"

"Okay…what? There's a 'but' at the end of that sentence, I can feel it. Are you worried about a present, not having anything to do at a kid's party, what?"

"No, I just…I don't know if…my uncle is in New York," she blurted, the words just popping into existence. Clint paused, noticing the way she tensed up, at the clipped and removed tone she used to say it.

"The one that took care of you? That encouraged the painting?"

"Yes."

"Is he gonna wanna spend all his time here with you?"

"No, no, nothing like that."

They were again quiet, Natasha staring at the wall in misery, Clint recalling his previous thoughts on her uncle being in on her cons. If he was a criminal, it would help explain the dread in her voice. Then again, he might have just been the typical scumbag like Clint's own father. In that case, Clint wasn't entirely sure what he could do. He hadn't exactly did a great job dealing with his father.

"Was he…did he know about…?"

"The Vereshchagin? Yes," she whispered, answering all of the other questions Clint could not say. "And he's here in the city, he knows where I am. If I go…"

"Is he violent?"

"No. He doesn't have to be. But when he does need it, when he gets  _other_  people in to do it for him…I just don't want that. I couldn't do that to your brother's family. Demyan…he does not  _care_  very much for other people," she finished, voice sounding so, so small.

"Why is he here?" Clint asked, holding her a little tighter. Natasha shrugged, a wiggle of her shoulder that dug into his side.

"He wants the painting."

"Is that why you called me last night?"

Natasha gave one, short nod.

Clint sighed through is nose, and rested his head on top of hers.

"Well, I don't know what to say. This is your fight, Tasha. Do what you think is best."

"It would be safest if I didn't go. If there was no one else, if he didn't know that I cared about anyone…but then there's you," she sighed. "You he  _has_  to know about, so it wouldn't be hard to… This is terrible," she moaned into his shoulder. Clint closed his eyes for a moment, hating to see just how small she could make herself.

"You'll think of what to do," he promised her, kissing the top of her head. She curled into him, and let out a long, slow breath.

"I hope so."


	9. the pursuit of an ordinary incandescence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am fast turning into that author that arrives a few hours late with a broken nose, pizza, and a dog.

"And you're sure I don't need a gift?" Natasha asked again. Clint, to his credit, was smothering a smile and not a grimace of irritation. It was at least the fourth time she had asked since entering the grocery store with him. Each time, Clint had assured her that his nephew Tyler wasn't going to throw cake at her for not bringing a gift.

"Yeah, Natasha. You've never met the kid, and I asked you a week before it happened. Honestly, he's just buzzed you'll be there."

"What?" Natasha asked, stopping dead in the grocery aisle and staring at Clint. This was  _not_  how he had described things earlier. It had been more nonchalant, Barney's family not really caring about her one way or another, not them eager to scrutinize the woman Clint had finally convinced to meet his family.

Clint turned back to her, and for a moment, they were facing each other down in the canned goods aisle. He raised an eyebrow at her, as if asking  _'Is this **really**  a big deal?'_ Her slightly panicked expression of  _'I'm going to change my name. Again.'_  was answer enough. Clint shifted the grocery basket to his other hand, and sighed through his nose.

" _Tasha._  It's my brother's family, not a bunch of Olympic judges, or whatever artists have."

"Artists don't get judges. People who judge art are assholes."

Clint frowned. "Everyone judges art."

"Then everyone's an asshole."

"That's not getting you out of coming to Tyler's birthday party."

Natasha didn't move closer. He heaved another sigh, walked over to her, grabbed her hand, and led her on to the breakfast foods.

"You are  _really_  nervous about this."

"It's tomorrow! And I've never—I've never  _done_  this," she confided, voice dropping to a stage whisper.

"I hadn't guessed," Clint deadpanned. Natasha shot him a look, but didn't say anything. She didn't exactly want to regale the elderly couple bickering over frozen hams with the fact that she was a little lacking in the traditional, functional relationship department.

They were mostly quiet as they moved through the cold cereal, though Natasha did insist that he forgo the strange freeze dried marshmallow cereals in favor of corn based cereals ("You can't eat  _just_  sugar."). Clint was just considering what kind of bread to get when Natasha spoke up.

"There wasn't anyone to meet with—with my last boyfriend."

"You know, someday you're going to tell me his name, and it will make all of our conversations about your mystery ex a  _lot_  easier," Clint said absently, sifting through the loaves of honey oat bread on the top shelf. He must have noticed the quality of her silence, because he turned to look at her, expression penitent. "So…there wasn't anyone to meet with him."

"No," she agreed, swallowing hard.

"He not have any family?"

Natasha couldn't help a tight smile at that, remembering dark rooms filled with even darker men.

"Not exactly. In many ways, Demyan and I…we were his family. He practically lived at our place, for a while."

"How important were people to you, back then?"

"Hm?"

"People. You said something like he was the only other guy you dated because nothing else was important compared to your art, right?" Clint's tone was almost casual as he glanced over the containers of yogurt, which struck Natasha as exceptionally strange. She frowned at him as he placed a few cups into his basket, and looked at her.

"Yes…"

"So, were people just not important to you, then?"

"They were important," Natasha hedged. She glanced over the neat rows of tomatoes and peppers, and neatly avoided Clint's gaze.

"They were marks," he said. Natasha thought there was a touch of darkness in his voice, but when he looked at her, his expression was understanding.

"Yes. So, you can imagine how important  _he_  was. It was like…he was the pathway between my uncle's world, and what could be  _my_  world. He was the one that started me on thinking about getting out."

"Yeah?" Clint asked, heading toward the check out. "But he was your partner in crime, so how did that work?"

"Well, he was the one that made me think that I could have something other than what my uncle laid out. And then that got me thinking about…everything else."

"Huh," Clint said. He paused at the conveyor belt, then shrugged and gave an expression that said  _'yeah I can see it'_ , before unloading his groceries _._  "So…where is he now? How did he react to you just getting  _out?_ "

"Well enough," Natasha said. Clint didn't push the topic farther.

"So, where're you headed now?" Clint asked, once they left the grocery store.

"Hm?"

"I'm headed this way," he said, pointing down the street. "Where're you going?"

"Mm, not sure yet," she said, frowning slightly. "Can I go with you?"

"What?"

Natasha looked at Clint, not appreciating his vague alarm at the thought of her entering his house. He recovered quickly, shuffling where he stood.

"I uhm, well,  _sure,_  I guess?"

"I was just thinking it was a little weird how I haven't been to your place yet. But if you don't want me there—"

" _No,_  it's not like that, it's…small," he mumbled, glancing away from her. "And, y'know, kinda…well, not like your place."

"Clint, I'm not dating your for your apartment."

"I  _know,_  I just…promise not to laugh?"

Natasha rolled her eyes, slipped her arm through his, and led him the way he had pointed.

A few minutes later, the two of them were standing outside of his door as Clint fumbled for his keys. He slipped the key into the lock, then hesitated. Natasha raised an eyebrow, and he opened the door.

Natasha had to smile when she stepped inside. Clint had made it sound like he lived in a matchbox, but his apartment was pleasant. It was small, and a little worn, but it seemed friendly. It also did not smell like cigarette smoke, which was a nice surprise.

"Your walls are purple," she noted, looking around.

"Uh… _yeah,_ " Clint said, like he still wasn't certain how they had ended up there. "I think the lady owning the place before me painted it one day. She was all sorts of crazy, finally had to be kicked out. I came here right after, and my landlord said that if it really bothered me, he'd have it painted. But it seemed like a big hassle, so I said I was fine with it."

He set his bags down on the counter and started putting things away. Natasha walked around, mentally taking down the details.

The front door opened right into the kitchen and looked through the living space and out of the pocket sized balcony. Clint's bedroom was to the left of the main room, small, and equally purple, although a different shade. The bathroom was tucked off to the side, against the inside wall.

"It's nice," she announced, going to settle on the couch in the main room. Clint flashed her an appreciative smile and closed a cabinet.

"I like it," he agreed, casting his eyes around his apartment. "It's…nice."

"Your little nest in the sky," she teased, which made him roll his eyes.

"Yes, you made your point about climbing four flights of stairs on the way up," he said. He walked over to her, and sat on the floor. He offered her a glass of water, which she accepted with a smile.

"Thank you for showing me," she said, nudging him with her leg.

"I figured that it would be kinda weird for you to meet my family before you saw where I lived." Natasha's throat caught at the words  _'meet my family_ ', but she took a drink of water and stayed calm.

Clint stared up at the ceiling, and let out a long, steady breath. He looked a little tired.

"Could you hand me a pillow?" Clint asked, tilting his head back a little farther to look at her. Natasha handed him a throw pillow, which he promptly used to cushion his head as he stretched out on the floor. Natasha considered him a moment, then laid down with him.

She smiled at him, thinking that she was being absolutely silly, but not caring. Being around Clint allowed her to get away with things like this (mostly because he did it first and gave her an excuse), and Natasha kind of liked it. It was nice, being able to do something  _fun_  every once in a while.

"You know," Clint began, staring up at the ceiling, "you know, this, uhm, this isn't exactly…this is hard for me, too."

"What?"

"This whole…thing," Clint said, giving a vague hand wave. "I've never…really introduced a girl to my family before. Like, with Bobbi, she already knew my parents. Same for everyone else. Or I was too embarrassed to introduce them."

"You were embarrassed of your family?"

"An alcoholic wife beater tends to mess things up, that way." The words were heavy, and held a trace too much bitterness, but Natasha still felt the thrill at being allowed to hear them. It wasn't hard to recall just how long it had taken him to speak about his past, much less the thick layer of discomfort that had coated his words when he finally did.

"But I—but this is new," Clint continued, forcing his voice to be a little brighter. "This is kinda scary for me, too. I…I want you to know that you're not alone in this."

Natasha reached out, and took a hold of his hand. She had been smiling at him for a long moment before she even realized she had moved.

"Okay," she whispered, then looked up at the ceiling. She had picked out a few shapes before Clint cleared his throat.

"Natasha…" He glanced down, to the side, clearly trying to gather himself a little more time. "Natasha, I…"

She stayed silent, waiting for him to say the words on his own. His eyebrows were crunched together, like he was trying to find the right thing to say, truly searching for every sound he wanted to make.

"Natasha, I really…I'm glad you're coming with me, tomorrow."

Natasha looked at him, curious at his serious tone.

"I…get that this is hard. After your uncle,  _with_  your uncle, I get that going out and being around people is tough. And I just want you to know…I'm honestly touched by what you're doing." He gave her a sweet smile, and there was a sincerity shining through his eyes that made it hard for her to speak.

There they were, laying on the floor of Clint's purple apartment, smiling at each other, fingers loosely wound together. A few months ago, she had been afraid to hold his hand. She had maintained her barriers and warily edged her way into something with Clint, because she was uncertain about how happiness would fit on her. A few months ago, she had been alone, hiding in New York, praying that her uncle or someone else from her past life wouldn't come find her. And she was still a little afraid, but…it was okay.

She closed her eyes, and then opened them again.

"I'm very glad I met you, Clint Barton."

He raised an eyebrow at her, that mild exhaustion in his face making his smile so much more world-weary than it ever should have been.

"I'm glad I met you, too. Even though you were really rude when we first met, and barely let me through the door."

"You were soaking wet and  _reeked_  of cigarettes."

"You are so difficult," he chuckled, looking back at the ceiling.

"I love you."

Clint kept watching the ceiling, his expression sliding into something she could not read.

"Yeah?"

"Yes," she said, and swallowed. Clint turned his head to her, and broke into a perfectly incandescent smile.

"I love you too, Natasha."

He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss, and then they went back to ceiling gazing, their heads resting together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this story. It's cute and gross and amazing and touches on serious topics but it's not froo-froo or ridiculous or crazy dramatic. Ten points to me for coming up with it :'D


	10. it is another sort of brave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone asks, the big delay was a moment of silence for the passing of Natasha and Clint as a canon couple.
> 
> also yOU GUYS THIS IS CHAPTER TEN. This is really exciting, oh my goodness. AND it's been a year since I first published this! This is all kinds of exciting. Thank you both to the lovelies at The Beta Branch for helping my get it this far, and to you guys for faithfully reading it :)

Natasha waited next to Clint, and tried to hide her nerves. Clint's brother Barney was picking them up for Tyler's birthday, and she wanted to give a positive first impression. Because, no matter what Clint said, this was the first time that Barney was going to  _actually_ meet her, not stop by and order a picture be framed. And, as much as she resented him, her uncle Demyan had made it very,  _very_  clear how important impressions were.

"That's his car, there," Clint said, standing up from the bench. Natasha stood as well, and smoothed her pants. She had, without a doubt, spent half an hour trying to find a suitable outfit for the day. Her first instinct was to wear something that was sleek but not intimidating, an understated designer label that made her appear feminine but capable. She had had the clothes under her arm and was halfway to the bathroom when she remembered that she was going to an eleven year old's birthday party, not a business meeting.

It was at times like those that Natasha was very thankful she lived alone, because the contents of her closet somehow managed to plaster themselves across her room, and it was by the grace of some unearned miracle that made her look relaxed and pleasant in a yellow lace blouse and white capris.

Clint took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. Natasha glanced up at him, defensive about her fidgeting, but his eyes were focused on his brother's car, sidling up beside them. She squeezed his hand back, and dragged in a breath. She could do this. She had scaled buildings, out run dogs, escaped governments, taken on new identities. She could meet Clint's family.

Barney climbed out of his car, a big, eager smile on his face. Natasha automatically returned the smile, and accepting his proffered hand.

"Barney Barton," he said, giving her hand a vigorous shake. Clint rolled his eyes, even as he accepted his brother's hug.

"She knows who you  _are,_  you  _have_  met before," he grumbled. Barney tipped his head back and shot him a perfectly injured look.

"Yeah, but that was as  _Miss Romanoff_ , the nice lady framing a picture for my anniversary.  _Now,_  she's  _Natasha,_ the woman that managed to wrangle my brother. She's practically a different person entirely."

"You're an idiot," Clint huffed under his breath, but Natasha noticed the half-smile he was trying to stuff behind his annoyance.

Clint and his brother were adamant that Natasha sit in the passenger seat, so a few moments later, Natasha found herself sitting next to Barney as they wheeled their way back to his house. Clint was situated in the back along with Tyler's present, and seemed perfectly content to sprawl out in the extra space.

They all made pleasant small talk until they left the actual city, and moved out toward the suburbs.

" _So,"_  Barney said, clearly warning Natasha that he was going to ask something of substance. "How on  _earth_  did you and Clint become a thing? Because, I'm bein' honest with you here, it looks like kind of a one sided deal."

"Oh," Natasha said, having expected things like ' _is that an accent, where are you from?'_ or ' _what did you do before you came to America?'_  or  _'so how did you stop stealing famous pieces of art?'_ But Barney's interest seemed pleasant and straightforward, just as Clint's was. He had an expectant smile, but it was mild, like he wasn't about to push too far.

Despite whatever had happened in their childhood, something had clearly gone right with the Barton boys.

"Oh, well…I'm not really sure what you're asking?"

"Okay," Barney said, breaking into mischievous grin. Natasha did not miss the look he tossed Clint through the rear view mirror. "What exactly made you think 'yeah, this is a good idea'. Be specific."

"You're gonna have to repeat it all for Sharon," Clint said, naming Barney's wife. "So please, don't be too specific."

"Well," Natasha began, thinking back to their strange, anxiety inducing, unfavorable first meeting. "I didn't like him  _at all,_  first."

"What? Why, what'd he do?"

"He was very, very wet."

" _What?"_ Barney practically guffawed, glancing back at Clint.

"There was a  _freak rainstorm_ ," Clint grumbled, to which Barney promptly told him to shut up, it wasn't his story.

"Well, there isn't much  _of_  a story," Natasha allowed. Things had simply…happened. He had guessed she had a stolen piece of artwork in her home, he left his number, she decided to call it because...she was curious. They had had tea together, they had gone on dates, she had let him watch her paint and then kissed her. He was kind and easy going and playful, but also serious and understanding and trying to deal with his own past suffering. He was…so very different from anyone else.

"I mean, we met, and I didn't want to deal with him, but when he left after our atrocious first meeting, he left me his number."

"Unbelievable," Barney scoffed, shaking his head. "You got brass, Barton, you got  _brass._ "

"You don't even know."

"But seriously, what happened after? You called him, or did he come back to annoy you?"

"I called him," Natasha admitted, trying to stifle the embarrassed grin on her face. "And things just…worked out from there. I liked him, he was nice."

Natasha had called him her muse, but it was a little bit more than that. She liked his verve and intensity and attempts to always find happiness, no matter what bad luck or frustration befell him. It was infectious, it made her feel lighter, she supposed. Especially since her  _last_  muse had been so dark, sometimes almost too terrible to look at. But not with Clint.

"Well," Barney said, tone a little more considerate, "that is damnably cute of both of you."

Natasha broke into surprised laughter, and stared at him. She couldn't quite read his expression, but it wasn't bad. Surprised, maybe, and a little pleased, but beyond that, Natasha had no idea what was going through his head. She swallowed and glanced down at her hands.

She didn't know why, but she was happy that she had made a good impression on Clint's brother. She wanted to seem  _right_  for Clint, a person that happened to compliment him, and be complimented by him when they were together. She wanted to be a normal person in love, not the con artist trying to fabricate some form of happiness, even as her uncle loomed lower and lower.

They arrived at Barney's house a few minutes later. It was a small house out in the suburbs, painted a soft grey with white trim. People could be heard behind the house, the squeals of playing children mixing with the low rumble of conversing adults. Natasha glanced at Clint after they got out of the car, nerves spiking again. But she forced a smile, and walked with the two brothers to the house.

"You can drop your present off in here, hang up your coat," Barney said, opening the front door.

The interior of the house was dark after the steady sunshine, but Natasha's eyes adjusted to show her the simple, homey decorations of the living room. The furniture was made of warm, welcoming cloth, and arranged to give the impression of a big, open space. Splashes of light blue showed up here and there, and Natasha let her artist's eye be distracted by the tasteful color scheme.

Clint set his present on the table next to the small pile of other gifts, and draped his coat over the back of a chair. Barney had just begun to tell them about something or other when a kid stepped into the kitchen, gave an enormous gasp, and catapulted himself at Clint's stomach.

" _Uncle Clint!"_  he cheered, squeezing Clint's middle for all he was worth. This, apparently, was Tyler.

"Hey, killer," Clint grunted, hugging him back. "Ease up, though, you just saw me last week."

"Is this Natasha?" the kid asked, letting go of Clint to look at Natasha. She blinked and tried not to fall back a step from surprise.

"Yep. Natasha, this is Tyler, and the other way around," Clint said, gesturing between the two.

"Hello," she said, pushing a smile onto her face. "Happy birthday, Tyler."

" _Thank yooooou,"_  he sing-songed, reaching over to grab her into an equally quick, ferocious hug. She stared down at him as one second he was there, trying to crush her intestines, and then he skipped back to the door. "Hey, will you come out and play games with us? We're gonna play some relays, and then  _Swedish twister_."

"Yeah, sure, we'll catch up with you," Clint said. Tyler nodded, beaming, then disappeared out the door.

"He is  _very_  excited to meet you," Barney commented from the kitchen sink, like his son hadn't just ridden in and out again on a whirlwind.

"We hadn't noticed," Clint said, equally dry. Natasha stared from brother to brother, then broke into a quick, bemused laugh.

"You'll get used to it," Clint grinned, and led her out into the backyard.

In all, Tyler's birthday wasn't the terrifying event Natasha had imagined. No one cross examined her, no one saw her illegal past scrawled across her skin, no one was exceptionally obnoxious or demanding. Sharon ran the birthday party with an ease Natasha was completely in awe of. She refilled the snack table, directed people to the bathroom, and organized the games. She was a thin woman with a warm smile and a high set ponytail, but she undeniably had an iron core. Natasha had guessed this when she saw the energetic Tyler's impeccable manners (which were clearly not a result of Barney's easy going, mischievous personality), but her theory was confirmed when one of Tyler's friends attempted to get hectic with the jello salad.

Nearly an hour into the party, Natasha found herself in the kitchen on snack duty with Sharon.

"So, Natasha, what do you think of the Barton clan?"

"It is certainly unlike anything else," Natasha laughed. Sharon grinned, and nodded.

"I know. Those two, when they're together…they're like the children," she chuckled, nodding at Clint and Barney's animated conversation through the kitchen window. Barney was attempting to set up croquet hoops for some of the kids, while Clint was shaking both his head and a mallet in protest. "But they're good. They turned out alright."

"They really, really did," Natasha said, watching Clint knock Barney's hands away with the mallet, the promptly start pulling out the hoops. "Clint is…a complete gentleman."

Sharon gave a loud snort of laughter, then covered her mouth in embarrassment.

"Oh, uhm, yes. Clint Barton, the perfect gentleman."

"He's still a little rough," Natasha admitted, trying to smother her own smirk as she poured Doritos into an empty bowl. "But he's a good man, much better than he would like to think. To hear him talk, you would have thought…"

Natasha fell silent, unsure if she was allowed to speak about this. Sharon was married to Barney, she knew just as much as Natasha did, and more. But that wasn't Natasha's concern. She and Clint…they had been together for a few months. He knew about her life of crime, about her uncle, about how she had to be very, very careful. She in turn knew about his damaged home life, how he had had to  _fight_  to find something good and make it work. And yet, she still felt like an intruder, like telling the secrets she had just barely learned was gossip, slander, a betrayal of some intimate, terrible sort.

She felt Sharon's eyes on her as she evened out the pile of Doritos, and topped off the bowl. A couple people passed through the kitchen, chatting happily as they moved outside.

"Barney's the same way," Sharon said quietly. "They try to hide it, try to make it seem like everything's fine, that there's no need to worry about them, but they struggle. They get into messes and do stupid things and hate to ask for help."

"But I would like to help, if they asked," Natasha found herself saying, dragging her eyes up to Sharon. "If Clint wanted it, I would try to do anything I could."

After all, that was what he had done for her. Without so much as a second thought, he had always given the impression of support, comfort, kindness. The only time Natasha had actually  _asked_ for help had been after her uncle's phone call, but she had always had the sense that he would be there, ready and willing. She had seen it in his smile, his focused gaze, in the way he would sometimes pick up a box of tea or a bag of fruit and give it to her, for no reason at all. It was the thousands of little things in her day that let her knew he was thinking about her. And Natasha wanted to give that back, wanted to be someone that cared for other people, someone that offered help when it was needed. She didn't want to keep being the person that left others to the dogs while she ran on ahead.

She swallowed, suddenly feeling embarrassed under Sharon's steady gaze.

"I mean…that's what he deserves."

Sharon huffed out a laugh, but it sounded much more like a sigh.

"Welcome to loving a Barton, honey. They'll get all of the teeth knocked out of their head before they'll believe that they can't do it all themselves."

"Maybe that's what he  _needs_ ," she grumbled, tearing open a bag of potato chips. Sharon chuckled, and pulled out a plate from the cabinet.

"It would finally get him to stop talking. I have never met anyone that could smooth talk his way out of a problem like Clint can."

"I have," Natasha said darkly. "Only, they didn't work their way into another one at the same time."

"That's true, he  _does_  do that," Sharon laughed, lining up a chef's knife against a watermelon. She cut into it, filling the kitchen with fresh scent of watermelon.

The two were quiet for a moment, and Natasha noticed that Clint had succeeded in redesigning the croquet course. Several of the hoops were now situated under people's chairs.

"Has he told you about Bobbi?" Sharon asked quietly. Natasha turned away from the window, blinking in the surprise.

"Hm? Oh, ah, yes, he has."

Sharon nodded, seeming relieved she didn't have to explain the subject to her.

"It…might seem a little tacky, talking about his ex-wife to you," she began, and Natasha shook her head to show she didn't mind. She wondered about this Bobbi, the woman that had been good for Clint, until they weren't good for each other. "He…did he tell you why they split?"

"It was because they…well, they didn't work out," she said, trying not to sound...whatever nasty thing a person could sound when talking about their boyfriend's ex.

"Yes, that's true. They were…very young when they were married. Barely adults, barely ready to deal with the struggle of marriage, barely ready to deal with  _themselves,_ so they just...grew apart. But, and this is entirely my conjecture, so don't quote me,  _but_ …Bobbi found it very hard to deal with that, with Clint's...I don't know,  _masochism_. He was in a worse place than he is now, dealing with his parents and then their deaths, and she wanted to help. She would have bent over backwards for him, but he just…he didn't want it."

"Didn't want it?"

"Wouldn't take it. Didn't think he was good enough."

"That's horrible," Natasha whispered, starting to finally put a face to some of the misery that had been his childhood. Demyan, as horrible as he was, did not tolerate the concept of not being good enough. He called it stupid and dangerous, and that not acknowledging her own weakness would get them all killed, or worse. Natasha had never been allowed to refuse his help.

Then again, that was probably its own sort of abuse.

"On top of all that, Clint is a very private person. You wouldn't think it, with how easy talking come to him, but—"

"He could talk to you for two months, and not say a thing," Natasha supplied. She gave the chips a wan smile, recalling the first few sparse weeks with him. He had had to be ready to confide in her, and there was nothing more she could do about it.

"Yup. I dunno why. Barney, thank goodness, can at least  _tell_  you when something's the matter. Clint, though…you just have to find it out on your own, and try your damnedest to get him to let you in."

"Do you think that's going to be a problem?"

"I don't know," Sharon said, giving Natasha a long look. "I really don't. But you two seem happy together. I want people to be happy together."

"Thank you," Natasha said with a tired smile. "Thank you, for all that you've told me. I…I'm kind of new at this, and I appreciate any…any help I can get."

Sharon picked up the plate of watermelon slices and returned Natasha's smile.

"It's a good thing, the Barton clan. A little messy, but it's good. I'd certainly like to have you stick around."

Natasha watched her walk to the door, a little lightheaded at the thought of being able to choose goodness, to choose  _happy._

The rest of Tyler's party passed without incident. Natasha was tugged from the sidelines and into the games, coaxed out by Tyler's pleading and Clint's encouragement. The first game was the round of Swedish twister Tyler had promised, which Natasha felt exceptionally unprepared for. The game involved the players contorting themselves to tap feet with another person, and then freeze until it was their turn again. Natasha conveniently fell out of the game before things became especially intimate. Spectating at this point also allowed her to fully understand the teasing disgust in Barney's voice when he called Clint 'a friggin' human slinky'. His circus days, it seemed, still came in handy.

After that, she found herself taking part in an absolutely ridiculous relay with Tyler as her partner. Natasha rolled her eyes as the different tasks were outlined, because she was a respectable adult with her own business and a very serious clientele, and yet she was letting her leg be taped to an eleven year old's. Still, she found that she liked it, despite its intense silliness (the three-legged race had been fine, and the blind croquet challenge from hell had been at the very least entertaining, but the two person tower for the piñata had definitely tested her limits). She and Tyler didn't win, but there were multiple times that Natasha found herself doubled over, unable to continue playing for laughing so hard. She honestly could not remember having such  _fun_ , ever. Her entertainment had been of the grim variety, with either her limbs or another person's fortune at stake.

Clint and his partner ended up winning the relay. His team were the official winners, but their status was thrown into doubt by their very loose interpretation of following the rules. The pair had justified themselves by the fact that 'Barney did it first'. He was there at the finish line as Natasha and Tyler had come in, ready with congratulations and a kiss for Natasha.

"You're doing great," he whispered in her ear.

"Clearly not well enough to beat you," she teased, but her smile said she understood, and that she was glad she came. Tyler took every opportunity to hang around 'Uncle Clint's cool girlfriend', and she had some genuinely pleasant conversations with the adults there. It was nice. Being with people was nice.

"You have fun?" Clint asked as they headed to the car after the party, everyone's goodbyes still hanging in their ears.

"I did," Natasha smiled, leaning into him. "It was a lot better than I imagined."

"Would you want to do it again?"

"…Not if I have to enter into another one of those relays. I can only play blind croquet so many times."

"You're just grumpy I beat you at croquet."

" _You_   _set up the course,_ Clint. That's cheating."

"Everyone knew that before the race even started. If you guys  _really_  did want me to play, you shoulda said so."

Natasha rolled her eyes, and stopped by Barney's car. Clint grinned at her over the roof, expression a fine blend of pleasure and smugness.

"Your face is going to stick that way."

"That's okay."

Natasha snorted, and looked over at the house, checking to see if Barney had managed to extricate himself from his guests.

"I'm real glad you came, Natasha."

She looked back at Clint, surprised by the sudden sincerity in his voice.

"Like, I know I said it before, but it means a whole lot. I like you…I like you knowin' this stuff about me. I like you knowin' my family."

"I like them. They're good people."

"They are," he said, and then there was something there, something lingering on his tongue, waiting to be let out. She watched him, ready for the words to come, ready for whatever he had to say, but Clint just nodded gave her a quick smile.

"They're good people," he repeated.

"Alright, we ready to go?" Barney asked, bounding over the driver's door. Clint nodded at him and climbed into the car, but Natasha hesitated, looking at where Clint had been. She got in, and didn't ask Clint about what he had not let himself say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you feel it do you feel things building it's slow but i'm getting there.


	11. it's blood, but not from the heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO I AM NOT DEAD i am just busy doing other things no that's not a good excuse i'm sorry i'm garbage here take this chapter i hope it makes things better.

Clint had had faith that things would work out at Tyler's birthday party, but also couldn't deny that he was a little surprised that things had turned out so well. Leading up to and during the party he had been quietly nervous about what would happen when Natasha met his family. Barney and his little chunk of domestic heaven were messy and loveable and all Clint had had for a long time, but they were also  _so different_  from the pristine nature of Natasha's life.

Of course, he had never doubted she would value one of Sharon's warm hugs over the hard criticisms of Natasha's uncle, or that she would prefer Barney's dumb jokes to running from the police. Like so many things in his life, he had worried she would look at the worn, patchwork quality and think a little less of the people that made it.

But that hadn't happened. Natasha had been quiet and a bit more reserved than most of the people there, but she appeared genuinely happy. She joined in the games, she talked with people, she smiled and laughed over things that had happened days later. More than that, Clint could feel  _something_  different between them, like a tiny gate had been pushed open, allowing new things through. He couldn't put his thumb on it exactly, but Natasha seemed more open, more eager to talk about personal things, just  _more_  with him. And that was amazing.

But also a little awful.

Barney had taken Clint aside during the party, eyes serious behind his easy smile. Clint hadn't been the least bit surprised when he asked if Natasha  _knew_  about Clint.

"Yeah, she knows about me," he said, and Barney had taken hold of his arm, made Clint meet his eyes.

"Does she  _know?"_

And Clint had given his brother a long look, fighting against the words they both knew were true.

"No," he said finally. "She doesn't know about my record."

Barney had sighed, run a hand through his hair.

"You're gonna tell her? 'Cuz that's not something you wanna hide."

"Yeah, I'll tell her," he said vaguely, not meeting Barney's eyes.

He  _had_  tried, a lot. He had tried to tell her about his less than flattering brushes with the law more times than he liked thinking about. In her apartment, that time in the grocery store, in his apartment, and then later when they had been waiting for Barney outside of his car. Clint had tried…and never succeeded.

" _Soon,_  Clint," Barney had warned and there was nothing threatening about his tone. Just concern, just worry for his brother's happiness. "Don't make her feel like she's walking into a lie."

That was the last thing Clint wanted, what with the glimmers of her past that he actually knew. Lies seemed like currency in Natasha's old life, handed out easily and without a second thought. And despite all of that, she had given  _him_  her trust, almost necessitating he do the same. He didn't want to be one of those people that made her wonder.

But every time he geared up to tell her the truth, every time he got close to telling her about the truck full of stolen jeans, or smuggled microwaves, or knock off purses, every time he thought about confessing this last filthy part of himself…he couldn't. Clint always promised himself that the last time would be the  _last time,_  he wouldn't cash in on someone else's possessions, not anymore. And that always seemed safe, the smart option, a good bet. If there was some distance between him and the crime, then maybe it wouldn't be so terrifying to say it out loud. It would be the way Natasha had confessed stealing the painting to him, after some time had cooled the police investigations and the guilt.

And then he would find himself handling yet another shipment of stolen goods, and Clint would go home and have to smother the thought that there would  _never_  be a last time.

He was such a mess.

But there were also other things to be worried about. Natasha attempted to hide it, but he noticed the way she became a little jumpier over the following two weeks. It wasn't obvious, someone else might not have picked up on it, but Clint saw how  _nervous_ she was. He couldn't pinpoint it exactly, she didn't  _act_  particularly strange, but there was a strain in her eyes that made him wonder.

Clint didn't say anything, waiting for her to bring it up, but Natasha seemed set on trying to act normal, or as close as she could. She took her afternoon tea, sketched people on the subway, gave dry, teasing remarks about the things around her. But sometimes Clint would catch her staring into space, a troubled expression changing her features. Her face looked  _dark_  then, grim in a way that made him uncomfortable. Natasha was a serious person, not grim. Clint didn't like what it all suggested.

Finally, he couldn't stand it, couldn't bear  _waiting_  any longer. She was being open with every other damn thing in her life, why couldn't she tell him what had her so stressed?

(Clint did not have to work very hard to notice the fine layer of hypocrisy in everything he did with Natasha lately.)

" _Nat,_ " he huffed, rocking back in his chair. She looked up from her cup of tea, frowning at his abrupt tone. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said. She frowned like she was genuinely confused.

"You've been on edge for  _days._ "

"Nothing's wrong," she insisted, then looked back down at her cup of tea. Clint stared at her as he took an unimpressed sip of his strawberry smoothie. Natasha shifted in her seat and stared across the road. "It's not…don't worry about it."

"Now I'm definitely going to worry about it."

" _Clint,_ " she sighed, asking him,  _pleading_  with her eyes to leave it alone. He didn't look away.

"Natasha, I want to know. If it's that bad, you've gotta tell someone."

"I can't."

" _Natasha—"_

"I can't," she repeated, turning back to him. "Not here."

He watched her carefully, considering the picturesque café and the pleasant people sitting all around them.

"Does this have to do with—"

"Yes," she said quickly, like she couldn't even stand to hear the words. "Yes, it does, and I just…" Natasha trailed off, and looked unhappily into her cup of tea.

Clint stayed quiet for a few moments, respecting the silence, waiting for her to continue. He watched a few people walk down the street, a couple of pigeons flutter around the tables, the writer a table away curse under their breath and fervently deleted a large section of his work.

"I can't do this," Natasha said abruptly, throwing her napkin down and standing up. "Come on, I'm going upstairs."

Clint obligingly stood up, thankful that he could keep his drink. He followed Natasha inside of the apartment building, not commenting on the way her agitation made her take the stairs two at a time. She threw open the door to her apartment and stalked inside.

"Tasha, what is it?" he asked, making his voice gentle as she threw down her purse and keys. She braced her hands against the counter, seeming to wilt a little in her own skin.

"It's my uncle," she whispered, almost too quiet to hear.

"What?"

"My uncle," she said, straightening a little and looking at him. "Demyan. He…" She trailed off, shaking her head as she failed to find the words.

Clint's skin prickled at Natasha's tone, how hopeless and dead she sounded all of a sudden. He moved closer and set his smoothie down on the counter.

"Has he done something to you?" he asked carefully, watching Natasha to judge her reaction. She shook her head but didn't look any happier. " _Natasha,_ " Clint said, warning her that this wasn't something he would let go.

"No, Clint, no, he…he hasn't done anything yet."

" _Yet,_ " he repeated, hating the implication of the word. "What does ' _yet_ ' mean? Has he called you again, threatened you? I mean, you were worried a while ago, but has he said anything flat out?"

"No, he hasn't called me again," she murmured. Natasha pushed herself up from the counter and held herself. "But he said I had a month."

"Until  _what?"_

"I  _don't know,_ " she huffed, looking away. "I don't know, he didn't say, he never  _says._  He's too smart to do that," she said, a broken, awful laugh coming from her. "In jobs, he wouldn't tell everyone the details so we couldn't incriminate each other properly. In threats…he leaves you to worry about how bad it's going to be."

Clint swallowed, skin crawling at the allusion to Natasha being hurt by her uncle. A part of him was rebelling at the idea of Demyan, vilifying him and shouting to  _hell_  with that guy, Natasha shouldn't have to worry about him anymore. But then another part, a smaller part, a more damaged part was shrinking away, recalling his own father and just how brutal he could be.

Clint put a hand on Natasha's arm, wishing he could do more

"It's…it's good you got away," he whispered, loving her for being able to save herself the way he hadn't. Even as a grown man Clint had gone back, and back, and back to that dreary, painful house with his parents. He hadn't been trained to do much better.

"But he's here  _now!_ _"_  Natasha snapped. In that brief moment of panic, of lack of control, he saw the blunt fear in her eyes. "I ran away but he  _found_ me, he wasn't supposed to! He's supposed to be  _dead."_

"Dead?" Clint asked, blinking. That certainly helped explain some of her anxiety over his being in New York. But Clint was certain there was something more to the story than Natasha's uncle being alive. Life wasn't frightening unless people could so something awful with it. "…Why, is he sick?"

"No," Natasha forced out, realizing that she had said too much. She was looking away from Clint again, standing rigid under his touch.

"Then…what happened?"

"What  _didn't_  happen?" she scoffed. "I left him in the middle of a job. I took that  _stupid_  Vereshchagin and alerted the police."

Clint stared at Natasha, shocked to hear her finally say it. He drew in a breath, trying to shuffle this new information into place. Her uncle had been in on the con with her. He had been a thief, just like her, had probably taught her everything she knew. Her uncle had been a con artist, like Natasha. She had stolen the Vereshchagin from him and set him up to be caught. He hadn't been. He knew where she was. He had given her a month to give back the painting, and it was almost over.

"Why did you take the painting?" Clint asked, focusing on the details he could properly understand. He had wondered about the painting in the months they had been together. Obviously, if she were going to fence the painting, she would have to wait until attention died down after the theft to sell it. But that was only if she didn't have a private buyer lined up. Clint wouldn't have been surprised if she were the type to steal things just to test herself, but taking a hot item with her to her new life had always felt strange for pragmatic, careful Natasha. Especially when she didn't seem to care about it.

"To make him fail the job. Our buyer…he does not accept that very well. If Demyan managed to avoid the police, then he would be pursued by the client."

"But he wasn't."

"He managed to talk his way out of it," Natasha snorted, angry at the fact. "Of course he did, lucky Demyan, cunning Demyan, he would work his way out of a gulag if he wanted."

"But you kept the painting, though. Why did you when—?" Clint tamped down on the words, worried that his knowledge might show through, that she might see the theft in his fingers and the liar on his tongue. Natasha blew a lock of hair out of her face and shook her head.

"I couldn't sell it. Vereshchagin's not important enough to take without a special connection, and the attention was too much, and even now, when it's died down…"

"He would know where you were," Clint said quietly. Natasha looked at him, mouth pressed tight, the fear still coiled in her eyes. But it wasn't just of her uncle. She was afraid of all that she was letting loose, the ugly, dangerous facts that were swiped from the shelf and hitting her kitchen floor.

Clint looked at the ceiling for a moment, not sure what he could say.

"And there's…nothing else you can do? You can't call the police, or…?" Clint trailed off, knowing how  _stupid_  the suggestions sounded in his mouth. Natasha would never have  _waited_  if she could act right away. But there wasn't any derision or contempt when she responded.

"No. No. I…I don't know where he is. I don't know if he's even in the  _country._  And even if he  _was_  arrested, he would be able to implicate me in the theft. If I burned the painting, he would have video of me, or my fingerprints, or  _something_ to turn me in. There's always something."

"Why is he doing all of this, though? He said he just wanted the painting, right?" Clint asked. "Is he just after you for revenge?"

"Of  _course_  he is," she scoffed, and stalked past him. "He wants to put me in my place for double crossing him, for making things difficult. This is all  _punishing_ me." She dropped down into one of the bar stools and stared at him over the counter.

"And that's it? You've just gotta  _wait_  for him to do whatever?"

Natasha was quiet for a long time, glaring at the marble countertop. Clint stood there helplessly until she murmured, "He wants me to give the painting back."

Clint frowned. Was this some sort of strange lesson in humility, nothing more?

"He wants me to give the painting back and...and return to working with him."

Clint sucked in a breath, suddenly afraid at the thought of Natasha leaving. Not just leaving  _him,_  but leaving the safety of New York. Leaving the freedom she had worked so  _hard_  for.

"I can't do that," she whispered, head in her hands. "I can't go back, I can't—he's never going to forget. If I  _do_  go back, if we start the whole thing again, he'll watch me every second. He'll never let me  _breathe_  without knowing, he's going to monitor every single thing I do, he's going to watch me and punish me because I can't  _do_  that again, not after this, not after having been  _myself_  for the first damn time in my life! I can't go back," Natasha whispered, sounding exhausted after her snap of energy.

Clint watched her, working his jaw. He couldn't do anything. He couldn't offer her any sort of proper comfort, couldn't reassure her that things would be alright. As much as he wanted to, Clint could not make things better.

"How long do you have?" he asked finally, bracing his hands against the counter.

"Four days."

He nodded. It didn't fix anything.

"I'm here, Tasha," he told her, and something in his voice made her focus on him. She frowned, blinking past the fragments of tears in her eyes. "I just want you to know that. No matter what…I'm gonna be here for you."

"That's too dangerous," she said, still in that dull whisper. He shook his head, knowing in that moment he did not care.

"But I'm still gonna be here."

Natasha blinked, looked away, and reached out for his hand. Clint let her take it, silent as she pressed his fingers against her mouth. His throat closed up when she pressed both their hands against her forehead in some sort of desperate, half-remembered prayer.


	12. (con)cept of the truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the idea of Clint and Natasha just DOING stuff together. It doesn't have to be domestic or crazy or special or new, I just want to see them walk around the city, holding hands and teasing each other and just having a good time.

It was absolutely terrifying, but Natasha listened to Clint. There wasn't anything else she could do, so she sat down, caught her breath, and kept going.

She refused to dwell on what would happen when her four days were up. Demyan may have punched his way back into her life, but she  _refused_ to let him affect everything. The ugly side of her that Demyan dragged out kicking and screaming wasn't something she would allow into her new life. The accidental confession to Clint that she had planned for her uncle to be murdered felt like she had doused herself in filth. The shock in his eyes hadn't surprised her so much as the vague self-disgust she felt when she realized that she had tried to  _kill_  someone. Not with her own hands, but still.

The fact that Clint didn't distance himself from her after that made her love him all the more, because if nothing else he was understanding.

He was understanding when she confessed her harsh, gnarled feelings toward Demyan, and he was understanding when she holed herself up in her apartment and acted scared out of her mind. Clint was the gift she had never earned nor expected, staying with her as she painted all of her terror away, reverting back to the thick, stark paintings of years before. Old subjects reappeared on Natasha's canvases; the jagged frozen streets of Moscow, the silhouette of a luxurious mansion she had hit not once but twice (arrogance had always been her weakness), the dark, stunning features of her partner in crime.

Clint asked simple questions about the paintings, wondering where the cityscapes were from, if she had personally visited the mansion, if the man staring out at them really had eyes so cold. Once his basic curiosity was cured, Clint retreated onto something else. Sometimes he read the books on her bookshelves, thumbing through color theory, classic literature, and miscellaneous biographies. Other times Clint played on his phone or watched a movie, giving loud, blunt commentary on everything and making her laugh. In those four days, Clint actually managed to make her forget about Demyan.

And then the deadline was over and nothing happened.

Not yet.

Natasha crept through the first day after her time was up, then the second, and then the third. Clint asked her what she expected was going to happen next. She hadn't know how to answer.

"Demyan is too clever to do something right away," she confessed after a week, her anxiety worn down to a dull fact at the back of her head. "If I made him angry enough to act instantly, he never would have given me a deadline. So now we wait until he's bored of me squirming."

"You don't seem like you're squirming," Clint pointed out, guiding her down a side street of Manhattan to a restaurant he had been talking about taking her to all week. Natasha thought it was a distraction tactic, but she liked being treated by Clint. Most of their time together was spent on the mundane, one of them fitting into the other's schedule and the two of them continuing on like that was their natural state of being. Going out together felt special.

(It was only late at night that Natasha let herself think about what she would do if Demyan took that away from her. Those thoughts never ended well.)

"Thank you, but Demyan knows me," she sighed, face turned up to the sky. It was a hollow sort of light blue, made starker by the blunt edges of the buildings around them. It reminded her of the crisp spring mornings she had spent planning a heist in Petersburg. "He knows how to get into my head."

"Well, that's why I'm taking you out tonight," Clint said, making her stop and look at him. His expression was serious, big blue eyes pushing straight into her soul. "Forget Demyan, okay? Even if it's just for the night, do something without worrying about  _him._  If he's gonna do something, he'll do it whether you're miserable or not. So don't be."

Natasha watched him for a moment, wanting to say that it wasn't that easy, that she couldn't just  _forget_  the quiet, heavy hand of her uncle on the back of her neck, pushing her down as much as it pushed her forward. But she also found her mouth stretching into a smile.

"I only promise to try for the night," she said, then reached down to take Clint's hand. "What's so special about this place, anyway?"

"It's this Asian-fusion thing," Clint said with a shrug. "I helped the owner a while back, and he said I could eat for free the first time I came in."

"Wow," Natasha said, raising her eyebrows. "You're a good friend to have, then."

"'Cause I'm worth free food, or 'cause you're getting my free food?" Clint asked, tossing her a grin. She rolled her eyes and let him hold the door open for her.

The food was delicious. Natasha had sampled plenty of cuisines in her life, but the aggressive mix of meats and spices took her completely by surprise. The owner himself appeared at the table when he heard Clint had arrived and began informing their decisions, all smiles and heavily accented cheer. Deliciously soft slices of beef grilled in savory sauces with ginger crusted lamb chops and spicy veggie dumplings and citrus salad all swirled about with the drinks and conversation, making her forget Demyan as promised.

She smiled across the table at Clint as he recounted one of his circus tales, waving his hands as he explained the nuances of working with acrobats. Sitting there with him in the bright, warm babble of the restaurant was wonderful. Her biggest worry was if she could convince herself that she could manage another bite of dim sum, not caring about who saw them or what her associates would say or if she was upholding her ruthless image. Before moving to New York, every kiss had been stolen and secret, lips pressing together in the gritty dark of a con artist's life or worse. Every happy moment hadn't been happy so much as defiant, risky, and rebellious in the only way Demyan would let her be.

Natasha really, really,  _really_  loved Clint, and it had been scary at first, but now it was simple as cleaning her brushes or picking a color scheme, natural as filling a sketchbook with her life. A part of her was still nervous over what Demyan would do with that, but another part of her was feeling a little fuller, a little stronger, a little more able to stand up to her uncle. Natasha didn't know how she would do it yet, but she would come up with a plan to keep Demyan from ever threatening her happiness again.

"What're you grinning about?" Clint asked her as they left the restaurant, strolling past the line of people that had accumulated since they started eating.

"I just had a very nice night," Natasha said, reaching out for his hand again and leaning into his side. "Thank you, Clint."

"Any time," he said, kissing her hair.

* * *

"Yeah, Frank, I know, you told me." Clint rolled his eyes at Natasha as he reassured the man on the phone, trying to sort out a few business details. She smothered a smile as she worked on a painting (she had forbidden herself from using dark colors as anything more than accents because she had given up the dark, she had given it up for herself and because of Clint), patiently spreading acrylic paint across her picture until he was done. He was hunched over the counter, knuckles pressed into his forehead as he tried to talk the man off the phone.

" _Yes,_  hand the papers off to Conrad, I got it. What do you mean ' _do I know who Conrad is?_ ' For crap's sake, I just worked with him last month…Mendez recommended him to me.  _Yes._  Mendez, Charlie Mendez. Okay. I'll do that. Bye."

Clint hung up the phone, heaving a beleaguered sigh.

"Natasha," he said, still facing the countertop, "people like this are why I don't give up smoking."

"As long as you don't do it around me, I'm fine," she quipped, cleaning off a brush. He snorted, knuckles still planted on his forehead. Natasha smirked as he began muttering to himself about how Frank was an idiot.

"Hey Nat?" he said a few moments later, picking his head up off of his hand.

"Mm?"

"Are your hands clean?"

"The paint's dry. Why?"

"Could you hand me my wallet? Mendez's business card is in there and I left it on the end table over there."

Natasha nodded and wiped her hands off on her apron just in case, then retrieved his wallet. She opened it as she walked over, thumbing through to find the business card he needed. She just before the counter, trying to process what she was seeing.

Nestled in beside his bills was a wallet-sized set of lock picks.

She blinked at it a moment. She didn't understand. Natasha couldn't piece together why he would have lock picks in his wallet, or if that was what they even were. But no, she had been in the game long enough to recognize them. Her own set resided in her purse, though it had been a long while since she had used them last.

"…Clint?" She couldn't take her eyes away from the lock picks. Her head couldn't figure them out, but her stomach was already sinking.

"Yeah?"

"Why…why do you have lock picks in your wallet?"

The heavy pause made her look up. It weighed on her, pulling slowly through the floor as Clint stared at her. He looked shocked, and nervous, and relieved, and scared. He looked caught. Clint slowly straightened, glanced down at the counter, licked his lips.

"I—" He cut himself off to drag in a breath.

Natasha stared at him, then back at the lock picks. They looked well used.

"Natasha, I—I didn't quite…I didn't know how to tell you."

"Tell me  _what_?" Oh, her voice sounded so, so cold.

Clint glanced away, grimacing like the words were actually painful to tear out of his mouth. But he was set on doing it. That much she could see in his eyes. Clint took another breath.

"I…get a lot of my work as a thief."

Natasha had been expecting it, and yet she still found it hard to breathe. But Clint kept going, saving her from the difficulty of trying to wrap her brain around words.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I just—I didn't know how, I swear to you I never meant to keep it a secret or anything. It's just…it's awful, I know that, it really, really sucks, but I didn't want you to look at me like I was a  _thug_  or something, 'cuz I'm not, I'm really, really not. I'd been doing it for a while before we met, for too long, and I wanted to quit, I swear to you this isn't just some story I'm spinning, but real work is…hard for a guy like me."

He was quiet a moment, looking up at her with ashamed, nervous eyes.

"Tasha, please say something."

She looked down at the wallet again, then looked away. She didn't want to see those lock picks.

"You…are a thief?"

"Yeah." He sounded miserable. "It's not…anything big like you did, I just…it's basic stuff, simple. Whatever everyday thing people need, I'll get for them. Pants, microwaves, knock off bags—"

"Stop, just  _stop,"_  she said, throwing her hands up. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself not to look, not to weigh herself down with the sight of lock picks and worry and regret.

Natasha put his wallet on the counter, then sat on the stool. She couldn't stand. She felt like her whole body was caving on itself. She soaked herself in lies, and yet this deception was hollowing her out. She had thought Clint was  _good._

Little things were starting to make sense, though. They were tiny, like his questionless understanding of her stories about being a con artist, her twisted confession that people had not been people to her for a long time, the hesitation he had in his voice when he would try to bring up a topic, then switched at the last second. She had willingly ignored them, though. Natasha had blindly thought that his graceful acceptance was because Clint was a remarkable guy, having seen enough grime in his own life to know not to judge a person by it. But he hadn't accepted her stain-smeared past with unerring ease because he was just a  _decent person_. It was because his present was equally filthy.

She felt stupid. Of course things couldn't be as perfect as she had hoped. She wanted to cry. She had thought she had left all of that badness behind her. She had been  _so certain_  Clint was Demyan's harsh cynicism wasn't just the results of a jagged soul. Maybe he had simply been pragmatic, thinking that all people were bad, they just had to be used in the right way.

 _No_ , no, that was all wrong, too. She felt in her soul that Demyan's way of living was a monstrosity that no one should commit themselves to. And Natasha knew honesty when it stared at her with wide blue eyes, anxiously offering up his own tragedy and gently accepting hers. That much at least had been true.

Natasha licked her lips and looked away from Clint.

"What else? What else haven't you told me?"

"Nothing," he half-whispered. "I swear to you,  _nothing._  That's it, that's the only thing."

She wanted to say that she wasn't sure she could believe that, either, but she was too shell-shocked for pettiness. Natasha clasped her hands together and pressed his wrists against her forehead. Neither one of them said anything for a long moment.

"I don't know what to think," she confessed. She saw Clint bob his head.

"That's fair."

"I just—Clint, you were—I was leaving that  _behind me,_ " she said. "You were supposed to be—things were  _different,_ yet you've pulled me right back into the mess I ran away from!"

She closed her eyes. That sounded terrible. But it was the wretched, gnarled truth. A harsh rock had fallen into her ribcage, pushing out uncomfortable and irrational anger toward Clint. He didn't seem offended by it at all. He seemed to be turning in on himself, collapsing before her eyes and before her blame, soaking it all up and not leaving a drop for rationality.

"I know. I know. That was…awful for me to do. I knew you wanted to get away from all of that, but I…" He dropped his eyes. "I don't have an excuse."

"I don't  _want_  an excuse!" she snapped, then pulled herself back. "Do you plan on stopping?"

"I always have. I kept telling myself it would be the last time, but I…it felt complicated."

" _Complicated?"_  Natasha demanded, her voice going high from anger and pain and disbelief. Just watching him made her angrier, because if she was wrong in her accusations, he would have challenged her, right? If this was a smaller issue, wouldn't he have stood up to her? Fear was mixing with her anger, making a hot, churning mess inside of her stomach as she tried to find the point where he pushed back and said  _no._  "Complicated is running to another country and changing your name for fear your only remaining family member would find you! Complicated is  _not_  quitting a crime!"

"Not all of us can go cold turkey," Clint said, a defensive bite coming into his voice.

There, she'd found it. Natasha grimaced at the window. It looked so damnably beautiful outside.

"I—I'm sorry," Clint said. "That was off, I shouldn't have—"

Natasha shook her head, making him fall silent. She should try to find a mask, she realized distantly, a persona or costume to hide behind, to appear strong through, to give her some space to breathe. But she had forgotten how to be someone else, she had spent too much time as herself to remember how to bury those fundamental truths. They stood in the quiet for another few long moments, her rigid while Clint shifted from foot to foot.

"I don't know what to do now, Natasha. What do you want me to do?"

She shrugged, unable to find anything to say. Even though they were standing there discussing it, there was a stubborn little part of her that refused to believe this was happening. Lies and crime couldn't have followed her across the sea, it  _couldn't_ have.

"And there is  _nothing else_  you haven't told me?" she asked, once more running through the arsenal of things they had discussed. Bobbi, their dog, his days at the circus, his brittle childhood, his cruel father. Those couldn't have been lies. But they might have been half-truths.

"No," he whispered. "Natasha, I  _swear_  to you on anything you want, I have been completely honest about everything else. I wanted to tell you, I really really did! But it just seemed so awful and pitiful compared to what you'd done, what you were dealing with, and I always thought I could stop, I always promised myself that I wouldn't do it again, but it…it never was."

"Do you like it?"

"What?"

"Do you like what you do? Stealing?"

He shifted again, dropped his eyes. "No, I don't. That just happens to be one of the few things I'm good at."

Natasha let out a breath.

"I—this—it's all very sudden." Natasha couldn't tell if she sounded cold or not. She just felt numb, now, numb and empty and lied to. Half-lied to. Not completely truthed to. Not completely trusted to.

"Tell me what you want me to do," Clint told her, voice low. "Do you want me to go? Tell me what you want."

"I don't know what I want, Clint," she said. She wrapped her arms around her body, holding herself upright. She felt burnt out.

He nodded and glanced around the room like he was memorizing its details, in case he never saw it again. Natasha hated that thought.

"I—" She started to speak, then cut herself off when he snapped his face back to her, like he was intent on memorizing every last word. Natasha closed her eyes.

"I need some time," she whispered, then nodded her head as she latched onto the idea. She didn't know if it was true or not, but it was something to do and she was doing it. "I…I think it would be best if you…if we took a break."

He nodded, almost heartbroken. "Okay."

"This isn't…I'm not…I don't want to give  _us_ up," she whispered, finally, finally feeling the tears in her eyes. "I like us, I love us. We…it makes me happy. But this…I need time to think."

"Of course."

She watched him, uneasy at how readily he agreed with her. She had never been in this position before. Had they just fought? Had her hard words been enough to chase him away? Did he even want to fight to keep them together?

"…Do you want to give us up?"

" _No_ ," he said, the word coming out in a shuddery breath. "No, we…we make me happy, too. I'm just the one that's messing things up."

Natasha bit her lip, wanting to walk around the counter and put her hand on his cheek and say that  _he_  was not the problem here, but she was having trouble deciding just what was true at the moment so she kept her mouth shut.

"So…so, uh, you want a break? Right, uhm, I can do that. After everything, I can do that," Clint said, holding his hands out in a shrug like this was a light thing, a simple thing, a not confusing and heartbreaking thing.

"Clint, you understand this isn't goodbye, right?" This couldn't be. She had never been good at goodbyes, had never really given them, and she was determined that this wouldn't be her start.

"Of course," Clint said, but it sounded a little too broken to be real. "Just a break, like you said."

He walked around the counter, pausing before her. She slid off the stool, knowing that she had to stand on her own feet for this.

She stared into his face, tracing over his features with a fervor that came with the uncertainty of never seeing them again. Natasha wanted him to hug her so much her bones ached. Even now, she wasn't certain how to initiate affection, how to reach over those few spare inches and hold him so close.

And she couldn't really grab onto him when she was asking for him to step away.

"Could I…could I get my wallet back?" he asked, almost too soft for words.

She handed the wallet over, pushing it roughly into his hand. She looked into his eyes as she did it, which was a horrible mistake. The regret there made her stomach clench.

"I'm sorry, Natasha. I didn't—I've messed up a lot of stuff, and I was really hoping that this time things would be different, and I would be able to make things work, make us work."

Natasha nodded, not sure what to say. She kept thinking about Bobbi, nice, likeable Bobbi that had helped him out of a wretched childhood and into a semi-functional adulthood. Bobbi, who had been wise and kind enough to end things with him before they became really bad. Was Natasha like her? Was she just another person that had wandered into Clint's life but had been unable to stay because of his actions?

Did he really think she wouldn't be coming back?

"I'm sorry, too," she found herself saying, the words appearing from her ungainly tongue. "I don't—I told you, I'm not sure what to do with this stuff, but I need some time, Clint. Things are just so crazy and I don't know if—"

"You want to keep on with a crook like me?" He said it in a way that was supposed to be self-deprecating and funny, but the anxious edge in his voice kept her from cracking a smile.

"I just don't know," she whispered, and he nodded like she had just confirmed something in his head.

"Right. Well, then, uhm, I guess I'll get out of your hair."

He lingered for a moment, and then Natasha found herself jolting forward and falling into him, grasping him in an fumbling hug. He didn't hesitate to hug her back, arms folding around her as he pressed his hands into her back and hair. When he tried to let go, she tightened her grip on his shirt, terrified that this really was it, that the misery in his eyes was the horrid truth.

They didn't say anything as she clung to him and he stood awkwardly, torn between staying and leaving. She finally released him, eyes on the floor. A little while ago she couldn't even hold his hand, afraid and nervous and needed some façade to hide behind. But Clint had stripped her down to her core, or had coaxed it out, or had reverently held his hands out as she wrung the truths from her soul. He knew her center, he knew that she had been telling the truth when she said she still wanted to try. But  _she_  knew that he was stuck in the haze that was his own self-doubt and shame, built by years of mistakes and bad luck and too many people doing him wrong.

"Stay safe," she mumbled as he backed toward the door, and he gave her a nod.

"You too. Lov—look out for yourself," he said, catching himself awkwardly from confessing a love he probably no longer felt the right to having.

Natasha nodded, watched him leave, and tried to think of a way to bring him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the only thing I can say is that they're not officially broken up.


	13. snap goes the trap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for begin patient with me! Things have been very busy for me lately. But have heart, we're nearing the end of the story! Things will get a little intense from here on out.

Clint respected Natasha's wishes. He didn't like them, but he respected them. And he also didn't deserve to do anything but be absolutely and completely faithful to her, now that he had betrayed her trust.

In the day to day things, he was fine. He picked up odds and ends that kept him occupied. He backed out of the job he had agreed to do before their fight. He cleaned up his apartment for once, caught up with some friends he hadn't seen in ages, did some work. But sometimes he would forget. He would to go check his phone for a text from Natasha and freeze with his thumb hovering over her name. He would get on the subway to go see her, but would panic and slip off the train at the last second. He would long for her smile and then ache when he thought about how he had lost it.

Not lost it. Maybe lost it. Hopefully not lost it. He still wasn't entirely sure about what taking a break constituted with her.

He knew that he deserved this, he knew it without a doubt. Clint had accepted her mandate before it had fully left her mouth. If they were being honest, it was only sort of a miracle that she hadn't called it quits completely. Not that he expected Natasha to give up on something so fast, but (and this he refused to say out loud for how _true_ everyone had to already know it was) because he was just not something people committed themselves to. Barney had stuck around, but that was only because he hadn't started out that much better and they were connected by blood. Everyone else…

They learned better, like Natasha just had.

Clint spent a week dealing with it on his own. Then his secret truth came tumbling out when Barney and Sharon invited him over for dinner. Tyler had run off to his room, leaving the adults alone to speak. Sharon had the good grace to soften the subject with a few lines of small talk before she dove in.

"What's got you down, Clint?" she asked, eyebrows furrowed in that loving, compassionate way she had.

Clint flinched out a smile and looked away. He knew he had to tell them. When this fell through…if it fell through…he would have to tell them what had happened to him and Natasha.

"Uhm…Nat and I…we're on a bit of a break."

"Oh?" she asked, and instantly she looked a little heartbroken for him.

"Yeah, she…she found out about my record. I told her. It…she wasn't psyched."

"Did that scare her off?" Barney asked, frowning now. He may have liked Natasha and he may have told Clint to tell her a lot sooner than he had, but something in Barney's face said that he was ready to go to battle over Clint's reputation. "She seemed a little more steady on stuff like that."

"No, it wasn't like she took one look at me and ran, she just…she's seen some crap and she doesn't want more of it, is all."

"Well, that's understandable," Sharon sighed. She shook her head and asked, "How bad was it?"

Clint gave a tired smile. "It wasn't pretty."

"So where's that leave you? Is she…she done?"

"I don't know," he sighed. "She said it was just a break, she doesn't want to give us up, but her uncle…"

"Is he really strict?" Barney asked.

Clint snorted out a laugh. "Yeah, sure, call it that. He's also the one that made things so bad for her. She wants to get away from that."

"Can't blame her for that, either," Barney sighed.

Clint shook his head and leaned back in his chair. He stared at the ceiling. "I thought I could make this one work. I thought, y'know, after Bobbi I'd figure out how to not be a horrible human being for once, but—"

"Don't do that," Sharon said, her tenderness disappearing in an instant. Her jaw was set and she looked horribly serious. "Clint Barton, I swear as long as you are in my house, you will not talk bad about yourself. This isn't _your fault._ "

"It _is,_ though," he said. "No one _made_ me steal or lie or cheat my way through life! No one made me _not tell_ Natasha. She's completely right for not wanting to see me. I'm a disgrace."

" _Clint,"_ Sharon said, and even though the intensity remained in her voice, it wasn't harsh. "Please, Clint, no. If you look at yourself like that you're never going to be able to fix things."

"She's right," Barney said. It was the softness in his voice that caught Clint's attention. Barney was a big personality, he could fill a room just by laughing. Hearing him quiet and serious meant things were worse than Clint thought. "You're a hell of a guy, Clint, and Natasha knows that. If you _want_ this, if she wants it, _fight_ for it! Why are you giving up?"

Clint stared at his brother and sister-in-law. He knew that a little while ago he never would have told them the truth. He knew that, had he not known Natasha, had he not trained himself to give her uncharacteristic honesty, he would not have spoken at all. But he had and he was better for it and he loved her for it.

"I don't wanna run the risk of messing this all up and hurting her again, even worse. I don't wanna hurt more people."

And it hurt to see their expressions soften so fast, it hurt to remember the way he father had sneered at signs of weakness, of Clint showing he was a sissy boy and had to rely on other people's pity to get through life. But Clint knew it was a healing hurt the moment Sharon reached across the table and held out her hand.

"I know that's scary, Clint, but sometimes you have to take that risk."

"You'll make it work," Barney said, and though he was gruffer than his wife Clint could feel the sincerity shining through. "If I know anything, it's that you'll make it work."

Clint stared at her outstretched hand, open and ready for him to take it. He didn't want to. He was afraid to. But Sharon flexed her fingers, silently telling him to take it.

"I hope you're right," he whispered. He placed his hand in hers.

* * *

Clint's room felt stiflingly dark. He had thrown open the windows to let the yellow street light in, but every time he closed his eyes he felt smothered. He'd been trying to sleep for a long time. He had tried going to bed at eleven and it was now after one, but he couldn't coax himself to do more than doze.

His head kept chattering with a thousand different things. The heaviest on his mind was the job he had agreed to do. Then backed out of. Then got roped into once again.

He had fought to keep himself clean, hoping that somehow Natasha would feel his efforts. But then they had come to him, desperate and pleading. There was no one else that could take his job, they couldn't stall this, _he_ may have been able to get by on odd jobs but this was _their_ livelihood. And somehow, Clint had been suckered back in.

This was the last time, though, he swore to himself. Last time. No more. Not when he thought about meeting Natasha's eye and seeing disgust.

And Natasha…she lingered in his head even more than usual.

After speaking with Barney and Sharon, Clint had been filled with an unsteady energy. He wanted to do as they said, he wanted to go out and fix things, to hammer on Natasha's door and beg for mercy, to hold her face in his hands and make her see just how much he _needed_ to make them work. He wanted to tell her that he loved her over and over and over again until she heard nothing else.

But he felt uncertain. He had an ache in his chest where her smiles had been, yet Clint didn't know how to go patch things up between them without seeming desperate and needy. But he _was_ desperate and needy. But he was also scared.

He flopped onto his back and threw his arm over his face. If he could just get his brain to shut up he would be able to go to sleep.

Five minutes of exhausted restlessness. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Thirty.

Clint groaned in defeat and slapped his hand around on his nightstand until he found his phone. It was obnoxiously bright in his face as he tapped in the password, but he dimmed the screen and moved his way to the text messages. His thumb hovered over Natasha's name. It was almost two in the morning. If she didn't want to speak to him he would seem as pathetic as if he had called her drunk from a bar. But he had to know that he had tried. And she had to know it, too.

_How are you doing?_

He forced his thumb down on the send button, then set it back on the nightstand. Clint watched his phone, waiting for the screen to light up with a new text message.

He fell asleep ten minutes later. The light still hadn't gone off.

* * *

"You ready, Barton?" Jeff asked, voice easy as he leaned against the wall across from their mark.

"Yeah, yeah. But I swear, this is the _last—"_

 _"_ Yes, last one, great, got it. Look, man," Jeff said, turning to face him. He was a decent guy that had just had a crap run of luck, like Clint. "I get you wanna get clean. I respect that. But I also respect you holding good on your word and seeing this out with us."

"Yeah, sure," he grumbled, pushing himself off the brick wall. Natasha hadn't responded to his text in three days. Clint tried to tell himself that was a sign that he could go ahead with this job without any penalties. "Adolfo ready?"

"Should be in place now," Jeff said, checking his watch. Adolfo was responsible for the security cameras when Clint actually broke into the place. After that, Jeff would come in to help him move as much product out of the cooking supply store and into their van as possible before their window closed. It was a tidy plan and not as ruthless as some of the operations Clint had been a part of. Like that was a big comfort to him.

"Alright, see you in two," Jeff murmured as Clint walked across the street.

The actions were familiar to him. Open the door, kill the security system, signal Jeff and Mark, the driver, start packing up as much as he could hold. If he could only turn off his mind, he'd be able to get through this and never look back.

"Okay, looks like back of the building has the best stuff. The front has the fancy machinery, but it's too exposed," Clint said as Jeff came in.

"Got it. Five more minutes, then we're out."

"Sure thing."

Jeff and Clint make quick trips back and forth, moving silent and sure footed. Clint could do this. He only had to not think about what he was doing, not think about Natasha, not think about how she would have done this, how her skill and precision and resources would have been so different. He only had to set the things down, turn around, go back in for one last load. He could do this.

"Make it quick, Barton," Jeff said as he passed Clint, headed for the van.

Clint waved in acknowledgement, then got to loading his arms. He could take just a little bit more…

Clint didn't know what tipped him off. He hadn't been aware of the van starting outside or even Jeff barking out a curse. All he knew was that one second he was trying to grab a nice set of knives and the next he was listening to sirens.

" _Barton!"_ Jeff snapped, voice carrying from outside, "We're blown, get over here!"

Clint sucked in a breath, already moving toward the door. This wasn't supposed to happen, this wasn't supposed to _happen._ Not now, not when he was so close to _getting out._

He jumped over a book display even as he heard the van's engine rumble and the tires roll away. Jeff was shouting at Mark, while Mark snapped back something about not going to jail again.

Of course, most of the time Clint couldn't hear a damn thing, but _now—_

Sirens. Sirens were chattering all over, he needed to make a break for it, maybe down an alley, maybe he could lose the police if he ducked into a building, slipped into a dive bar. He had done this before, if he stayed calm and acted natural and didn't panic—

A squad car cut him off at the end of the road. Clint glanced around for an exit, for an escape from the police surrounding him, but found nothing.

He stopped running, bit his cheek, and got down on his knees. He put his hands on his head before any of the officers had finished getting out of their cars.

_Aw, shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops.


	14. hold onto that which is dear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare yourself. We only have a few chapters left.

Natasha's house was so _quiet_ without Clint. She didn't know how she had stood it before, waiting around in oppressive silence, hearing only her own thoughts, her own heartbeat, her own movements. There were no words, no laughter, no _nothing._ Just silence.

It smothered her. It gave her time to think. It made her want to cry.

Everything she did now seemed to involve Clint. Painting a picture made her think about his endless questions about her work. Eating made her miss the way he fidgeted through every meal, like added motion made the food taste better. Sketching people on the subway reminded her of his comments on how her style had changed, then of his excitement when she had confessed he was her muse. Walking down the street caused her heart to leap every so often because each whiff of cigarette smoke made her think, _maybe,_ just maybe, it was Clint standing nearby.

(No wonder she hadn't been in any other proper relationships. She was far too needy for love.)

This sort of heartache should have reflected in her artwork, she thought on rare, dramatic occasion. She should have been drowning herself in hues of blue, each line and brushstroke turning silky and sad. But it didn't show up in her art. Nothing showed up in her art. Natasha found herself stalling more and more when it came to painting or sketching, her inspiration disappearing as she worked out her loss.

Because it _felt_ like a loss. It felt like Clint had been stolen from her by fate, like she would never get him back. Which was ridiculous, because she _hadn't_ given him up. She had asked for a break, not an estrangement. But it was seeming more and more likely that Natasha's only way of coping was the compulsion to hide.

She felt pathetic. She felt lonely. She felt terrified to call Clint.

How could she call him? She hadn't made a decision, hadn't decided how she felt about his life of crime (other than _hurt_ ). She had only wanted to put a hold on things so she could have time to puzzle out just what she wanted. Natasha had known herself well enough to realize that she couldn't look on this tiny betrayal without irrational hate swelling up in her chest. She had needed time to remind herself that just because Clint committed crime, he wasn't one of the animals she used to work with. He wasn't like her uncle.

Natasha only partly believed that. Demyan had made it clear that human decency only ran so deep with criminals.

And what if she _did_ ask him to come back? Could Natasha prevent things from going bad? Or would his life of crime bleed into her and call out the nastiness she had worked so hard to bury? Would they realize that whatever they thought they loved about each other was just a thin sugar shell of lies?

When she saw Clint's text one morning, Natasha was both relieved and anxious. Her stomach jolted into her mouth and kept her from breathing as she fumbled with her phone, trying to unlock it. Then she tried not to feel upset that the message was so clinical, so brief.

_How are you doing?_

It felt like an insult. How was she _doing?_ Finally, after days and weeks of painful silence, he asked how she was _doing?!_ Natasha wanted to scream.

It took her a day of being infuriated to realize that it was a perfectly valid question. He didn't know how she was. Clint had obeyed her request with heartbreaking sincerity. Their lack of contact had been absolute so now he was gently asking her if he was allowed to come back.

Natasha took another day to realize that she had only been angry because she had wanted that text to be their solution. She wanted Clint to have solved the problem for her. She wanted him to have found the perfect solution she was so greedily asking for, to have found a loophole so he could come back and spend forever with her.

She was so _selfish._ She didn't want to be like that anymore.

* * *

Out of all the people Natasha knew, she did not expect Barney Barton to call her in the middle of the afternoon.

" _Barney?_ " she asked, somehow confused by the whole situation. Why would Barney call her? Why, when things had fallen apart with Clint? How did he even get her cell number?

"Yeah, y'know, Clint's brother?"

"No, yes, I know who you are. I just…I'm surprised, is all. Is everything alright?"

"Sure," he sighed. It sounded like he had had a very long day. "We can say that."

"Is this personal or business?" Natasha clarified. She wasn't certain which would have been worse.

"It's about Clint."

"…Oh."

"I…I'm not really sure how to handle this?" he said, clearly as uneasy as she was. "I know you two are…on a break, so it's kinda awkward to act as a go between for you two. Would be awkward either way, actually."

"'On a break'? Did Clint tell you that?" Natasha asked, suddenly eager for any news of him.

_Desperate, desperate, desperate._

"Yeah, he gave me the bare details. But, Natasha, this…it's not gonna be about what you expect."

"…Why? Did something happen to him?"

"Yeah. Clint…he's in jail, Natasha. He's been arrested for burglary."

Natasha braced herself against the counter. She felt like she had been hit in the stomach. Clint was in jail. Clint had been arrested. Clint had been stealing.

Had she caused this? Had their fight sent him spinning into bad decisions, had he raged against the void between them by spiting her in ways she would never know? No, no, she wasn't thinking straight, she needed to be logical. Natasha had looked into his face when they had argued, she had seen his selfless need to make her happy. Clint had been ready to do anything she asked, had practically been offering his entire life in sacrifice if it meant her forgiveness.

So...why had he gone and done the exact thing she had demanded he not do?

"Arrested? When?" she managed. Even though her voice sounded a little hollow to her own ears it didn't shake.

"Last night, late. I don't know all of the details, but…he was on a job and it went sideways."

"Alright. What exactly was…uhm, what's going to…why are you calling me? I mean, uhm, how did you get my…?" Natasha pressed a hand against her eyes. She was so off balance she couldn't even speak straight.

_Get a mask, Natasha. Find a persona and use it to get you through this conversation._

"Clint called last night, after they'd processed him. He asked me to call you, told me your number."

Clint had memorized her phone number.

"So here I am, I guess," Barney continued. "He's alright, ego's little bruised, but…it's lookin' like he'll probably do time, the case is pretty open and shut. He just wanted you to know, in case you wanna try things out with him again. Clint also says he wouldn't blame you if you left and never looked back."

But she would. She would blame herself _so much._ Before hearing the news Natasha had been uncertain and hesitant, afraid to reach out to Clint on the off chance that the filth of crime would ruin what they had. Hearing his helpless apology, even though it was from Barney's mouth, pushed away all of her doubts. He wasn't asking for help, wasn't using the painting as leverage against her. He was telling her goodbye and to have a good life.

"Look, Natasha," Barney said. He sounded a little more serious, now, less tired and more determined. "I don't know exactly what happened between you two and I don't need to. But you should know that Clint adored you. You made his life better, I swear. And from what I saw at Tyler's party, you seemed to like him a whole lot back. Talk to him, please. Before anything happens just go talk to him."

"Yeah," Natasha murmured. She frowned, a hazy recollection coming to mind. "Wait, he's still in jail? Can't you do something about that? What is it, paying bail?"

"He said he didn't want it," Barney said, the exhaustion crashing back into his voice. "Trust me, I tried, I was halfway out to the car to go help him myself, but…Clint wants to stay there."

"Okay. Okay." Natasha chewed on her lip as she thought. Clint wanted to stay in a cell. He wanted himself to suffer? The thought made her jaw clench. Despite all the insistence he gave that she was important and good and desirable, he still failed to believe it about himself.

Natasha asked Barney for a little more information and Barney listed it off. He sounded like he needed to sleep. They probably both did, if the heaviness in Natasha's limbs was any indicator.

"Thank you, Barney," she said. "No matter what, you're a good brother."

"Some days it doesn't feel like it," Barney chuckled. "Somedays it really doesn't. But I guess that's just part of loving Clint, y'know?"

Natasha smiled because she very much did.

The rest of the day felt empty, sliding by in a blink. She couldn't sleep that night. She couldn't get the picture of Clint in a jail cell out of her head. He had been arrested for theft. She needed to help. But how could she, when he was refusing to accept it?

Why had Clint even chosen to stay there? Why hadn't he let his family help? Why had he asked Barney to let her know? Was Clint hoping that she would be chased farther away? He had to know she wouldn't run away from him, not when he needed help. But then...in a sick sense, it would be exactly the distance she had asked for.

Natasha didn't want to get out of bed the next day. She wanted to roll over and cry because things had gone so disgustingly wrong. But she did get up. She got up and took a shower and ate breakfast and went for a walk and came home. She curled up in Clint's favorite chair. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her knees.

Natasha's home phone rang. She let it ring out. Her answering machine took over and politely apologized for missing the call.

" _Natalia, pick up the phone._ "

Natasha jerked to her feet and grabbed the phone before she could think.

" _Why are you calling me?"_ she snarled, the Russian hot and angry as it rolled off her tongue.

Demyan scoffed out a laugh. " _I told you, Nia. Your month is up. Give me the painting."_

" _I_ told _you, I don't have it!_

" _I've had enough!_ " he snarled, and the steel in his voice made her flinch. " _Give me the painting. If you don't, I will cut your life apart bit by bit until you are surrounded by nothing but blood and bone."_

" _You wouldn't_ dare. _I could ruin you just as easily,"_ she scoffed, emboldened by grief. There wasn't anything left for him to take, now.

" _It wouldn't be worth it. I would destroy you before you got the nerve._ "

Natasha actually found herself laughing. " _There's nothing left for you take from me."_

" _Oh? Tell me how that crook of yours is doing."_

Ice lodged in Natasha's throat. She dragged in a jerky breath, too horrified to try hiding it. Demyan's laugh was much colder than hers had been.

" _That good? I'm delighted that your taste in nice, wholesome men hasn't changed, Nia. Though I'm surprised that you picked someone so fragile. Maybe you wanted to act like you were in control for once?"_

 _"You—you—_ you _,"_ Natasha spat, hands shaking almost as much as her voice. She knew she was stammering but she was too appalled, too irate, too terrified to speak properly. She pressed a hand against her mouth, forcing back the hateful sob threatening to leave her throat. " _You had Clint arrested? You framed him?"_

 _"_ Hardly. _He's not a very good thief, is he? Very easy to guilt. The moment complications arose because he backed out of a job, he instantly came back to help. He never would have survived anything high stakes like what we did._

 _"_ You _made him take that job?"_

 _"Has living on your own dulled your wits?"_ Demyan asked, irritated in an instant. " _Of course not. I told you. The idiot took the job of his own will. If he'd had an ounce of self-preservation, he would have just walked away. What did he expect but to be arrested? So easy to lure."_

" _You set him up!"_ Natasha snarled, slamming her hand down on the counter. She cradled it against her chest, letting the burn of pain fuel her hatred toward Demyan. " _All because I won't give you the painting, you sent him to_ jail! _You monster."_

_"He was playing with matches like the best of us. He just wasn't as good at it. Now, Natalia, if you want you precious idiot to remain safe, you will give me the Vereshchagin. A thousand things can go wrong from now to prison."_

_"And you wonder why I ran away from you,"_ she hissed, knowing there was nothing that could hurt him but needing to try all the same.

" _I always imagined it was because you wanted to keep my share."_

 _"Of course you'd actually_ believe _that."_

_"I am done playing games, Nia. Give me the Vereshchagin and we can end this nicely."_

Natasha threw the phone into the cradle before she could say anything she would regret.

* * *

Natasha forced herself to remain very, very still while she waited. She didn't look at the officer behind the desk, she didn't examine the walls, she didn't check the camera. She just waited.

"—c'mon guys, I know it's kinda crazy, but you realize I don't actually _want_ to be released? I mean, does it look like the kind of guy that's got enough friends to post bail?"

"I don't actually care _what_ kind of friends you've got," a police officer said, finally coming into Natasha's line of sight. She held her breath and watched as the officer gestured Clint to the doors, entirely unimpressed with his protests. Clint was still frowning at the man.

"Anyway," the officer said, "seems like the only friend you need is missy over there."

Clint turned, and it actually hurt Natasha's heart to see his face fall when he saw her.

"Nat," he murmured.

She stood up and walked to him. Every step was stiff, every breath stuck a little in her throat. That was fine. She had Clint, that was fine.

"Thank you, officer," she said, and took Clint's hand.

He stumbled after her in confusion, not saying anything until they were outside. The sidewalk was littered with people, but it felt so blessedly free after the oppressive office.

"Natasha, what're—Natasha, hold on," Clint said, grinding to a halt. He didn't pull his hand away.

She turned to face him, mouth set. "What?"

"Tasha, I'm—" he swallowed and shook his head. Clint took a moment to find the words, hands stabbing into his pockets. "Look, I'm really grateful you did this for me, but I didn't _want_ you to."

"No, you wanted to go to _prison."_

 _"_ It's probably for the best. I mean, if I've gotta actually _suffer_ for being an idiot…okay. Maybe it might straighten me out for real."

" _Not_ okay!" she snapped, letting go of his hand to throw her arms in the air. "That's the stupidest thing I have heard you say! I do not want you in prison, I don't want you to suffer!"

Clint gave a strained laugh and looked away like he didn't quite believe that.

"Look at me!" she said, stretching on her toes so she could catch his eye. "I will not let this happen to you."

"Nat, I got _caught._ I chose to help rob that store. My choice. My punishment. That's why I didn't want anyone to post bail. This way I can't do anything else before I'm sentenced."

"You're being ridiculous. Demyan did this," she ground out. " _Demyan_ made you get caught!"

"Dem—your uncle?"

" _Yes._ I don't know how, maybe he tipped off the police or something, but he had you arrested. He knew you had refused to do the job, but he tricked you into taking it again. He would have gotten you another way if not now."

"He didn't _make_ me do the job, Nat! I don't know how you got this into your head, but…just stop. I mean, I'm touched, but stop trying to convince yourself I'm something I'm not."

Clint turned away but Natasha caught his arm and jerked him back around. People were glaring at them for taking up so much of the sidewalk and for shouting, so Natasha dragged Clint down the street. He let himself be pulled into a small inlet in front of a store, but he still looked like he was only humoring her.

"I don't care that you were arrested for theft. I mean, I'm not thrilled, but that doesn't make me hate you! It's okay, Clint, it's _okay._ But what's _not_ okay is Demyan trying to destroy the happiness I have."

"Nat, you can't look at me and say—"

"Yes, I can! I can say you make me happy because you _do_ , Clint! I love you too much to lie to you."

"That's not anything I want on you, though!" Clint said. The heat in his voice took her aback. He seemed upset to hear those words come out of his mouth. _I love you too much._ "It's been, what, a couple weeks since you saw me last? And in that time I can't even hold myself together enough to respect your wishes! The moment you turn away, I'm back to being a petty thief. I've thought about it and I'm done. I'm done dragging people down because they care about me."

Natasha grabbed his shoulders and yanked him close, on the verge of shaking him to get him to understand. She was almost snarling when she spoke, angry that he was so insistent on hating himself.

"He _told_ me, Clint! He wants the painting, my month's up! _This_ is the punishment he had in mind! He's going to tear my life apart, he told me. This isn't you."

"Then I'm just endangering you!" Clint yelled back, pushing her hands away from him. "Don't you get it, I'm just causing trouble for you. Let me go, Natasha, I don't wanna cause you any more trouble."

"Don't _you_ get it?!" she demanded, putting her hands back on his arms as though she could hold him there and make him listen. "This isn't about _you,_ Clint! Demyan knows I care about you, so it doesn't matter how far away you are, how long it's been since we last talked, none of it matters! He is going to hurt you to hurt me, so would you please just value yourself for one moment and let me care about you?!"

She was shaking she was so frustrated, but Natasha didn't care. She didn't want some mask or façade that made her seem in control, because she wasn't in control. She was scared and angry and determined. Natasha didn't want to hide that. So she stared at Clint head on, begging him and needing him to agree with her. He had flinched when she ordered him to care about himself, but he didn't seem upset that she had said it.

"Listen to me! You are _worth_ being cared for! I would walk through fire before I let anything happen to you! And I'm not asking for your permission to let me help you, I'm doing it whether you want it or not. But will you at least make things easier for me and help?"

His mouth was a tight line as he looked away from her. When he spoke he was glaring down the sidewalk. "If your uncle wants to hurt me...how are you going to stop him?"

Natasha's grip loosened on his arms. She had been trying not to think about that. It was the only option she could think of, but it scared the hell out of her to think about.

"I…I know some people that can help. It might be difficult but they know how to handle people like him."

Clint continued to give her that borderline suspicious look, but he didn't question the sudden hesitance in her face. He licked his lips, then nodded. It looked like he was trying to convince himself.

"Yeah, okay. Sure," he said, head still bobbing. "I, uh, alright. You sure?"

"Yes, Clint, I am sure," she said, almost sighing in relief. Her hands slipped from his arms to his hands, moved by an instinct he had kindled in her chest. Touching him felt so easy now.

"Even about...that stuff you said about me?" he asked, hunching in on himself as he mumbled the question at the ground.

"Yes, of course, yes." She squeezed his hands to emphasize her point, hoping and praying that he believed her.

He nodded again, then took a deep breath. "Okay. I…thank you."

The words sounded awkward in his mouth.

Natasha smiled at him, wanting to feel relieved but not finding it within herself. She hadn't earned that yet. If she made a single false step before now and winning, her uncle would destroy her without hesitation.

Clint cleared his throat and looked at the sky. "I…should get home. I spent the whole night in a holding cell, so…it'd be good to get washed up and call Barney or something."

Natasha sucked in a breath, a little wounded at his opting not to go home with her. It hurt, but itmade sense. Her home was not his home by any stretch of the imagination. He needed clothes, a shower, some food, and maybe a toothbrush. And probably some time away from her.

After a few moments of her forcing out a waxy smile, it melted into place.

"Of course. Go get some rest. But…will you come see me? After? There's some things I want to talk to you about."

"Sure," Clint said, still refusing to meet her eye for more than a few seconds. He forced out his own smile and squeezed her hands.

Natasha let him go, a knot forming in her chest. "I'll…I'll let you get going. And Clint?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for letting me help."

He smiled again, and this time it felt real. "Thanks for wanting to help."

Clint brushed her cheek with the pad of his thumb, then walked past her to the subway. Natasha stood there a moment as she tried to catch her breath, then made her own way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAN LOOK AT THIS PLOT GO


	15. darling, you are my resolve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so there are like maybe two more chapters of this yay.

Clint didn't exactly believe Natasha when she told him he wasn't at fault. He didn't believe that things could be so easy, that he could slide out of his mistakes with so little effort. But he _hated_ fighting with her, even in the limited disagreements they'd had. He wanted things to be okay with her, even if it was just for a few moments.

He spent the time it took to get home to think. He couldn't say if he thought with any clarity. Between spending the night in a holding cell and his argument with Natasha, Clint didn't have much energy for puzzling the subject out with himself. He wanted to go to bed and possibly never wake up. Ever.

He leaned against his door after he got home. His apartment looked tired. He hadn't given anything a proper clean in who the hell knew, all of his furniture was either second hand or beat to pieces, and…there wasn't anything he had got for himself that he _really_ liked.

There wasn't anything in his life that he had got for himself _really_ liked, except for Natasha.

Clint sighed and heaved himself off the door. He kicked off his shoes and pulled off his shirt as he walked to the bathroom. He let the tap run as he brushed his teeth so it was hot when he washed his face. He looked like a wreck.

Clint collapsed on his bed. He fumbled with his hearing aids, dropping them messily on the night stand. His phone obligingly lit up when he pressed the button, the battery still having gone without a charge for a couple days. He set an alarm, then let himself go limp against his pillow.

This was the start of a very long week.

* * *

Clint climbed up the steps to Natasha's place. He could have asked her to meet him, but after waking up he needed to get out of his apartment. And he still wasn't sure where they were. A part of him said they were more or less equal now, but he didn't want to go with that on the off chance they weren't.

He knocked on Natasha's door, scuffing his feet while he waited. The door opened and he barely had a moment to mumble out a hello before Natasha grabbed him into a hug.

Clint staggered back a step, alarmed and confused as he stared down at her. "N-Natasha? What're you...?"

"I _missed_ you," she said, the words barely audible from where her face was pressed into his chest.

He swallowed and tried to breathe past the lump in his throat. Clint squeezed out a smile and forced half a laugh into his voice. "Thanks, Nat. You gonna let me in, now?"

She held onto him for another moment, then let go. Clint followed her inside. He was kind of surprised to see that it hadn't changed in some integral way. The day's mail sat on the counter, there was a cup on the coffee table, and her work area was a touch messier than usual, but that was it. Otherwise, her home was as orderly as ever.

He loved it there.

"Did you get any sleep?" Natasha asked, walking into the kitchen.

Clint settled onto one of the bar stools, shrugging in response. "Yeah, a little bit. It was nice to be able to get back to my own bed."

"I believe it," she said, her smile gentle as she started peeling a mandarin. Clint watched the peel winding down to the counter in one long, continuous curl, breathing deep as the citrus smell filled the room. He considered asking if she had ever been thrown in jail (for a con or for real), but he resisted. That still was not within his right to ask.

Natasha glanced up at him, a slight smile on her face. Clint looked down.

What was making her so _happy_? They were still facing a mountain of troubles; that hadn't changed in in the handful of hours since he had seen her. Hell, they had been _yelling_ at each other the last time they had met. Had anything happened? Or was she just that relieved to see him there, safe and sound and not in a jail cell?

"Did you call Barney?"

"Oh, uh, yeah," Clint said, bobbing his head. "Called him on my way over. He was glad I'm out, but…he's still kinda pissed. It would've been worse if Sharon'd got the phone."

Natasha was quiet for a moment, then she asked, "Why…why did you ask him to call me?"

"Hm?" He looked at her, surprised by the question.

"Why did you have him call? He told me you'd been arrested right after he found out. I'm glad he did, but…why?"

"I dunno," he hedged, running a hand through his hair. "I…I didn't want you to find out the hard way, months later or something. I wanted…you to know what'd happened. It wasn't quite saying sorry, but it was really all I could do."

He made himself watch her, made himself pick up every tiny movement in her face. He kept waiting for her to harden, for her to show that pain and anger she had felt when he confessed. But it wasn't there. For some weird reason Natasha seemed… _okay_ with where things were. Not happy, but not refusing to help.

No, that was too good to be true. It would be dumb to assume…

"So, uh, what're these plans you've got?" he asked.

Natasha's soft expression closed off and she straightened. Clint felt a little guilty at having stolen the moment (whatever it was) from her, but he also felt a little relieved. Businesslike. He could handle businesslike.

"We need to stop Demyan," she said bluntly. She split her mandarin in half, then offered him a slice. Clint took it but didn't interrupt. "There's no other choice. If I try keeping the painting, he'll always come after me. If I destroy it, he'll ruin me. And if I give it to him…I'll never be able to get away again."

"So what're you going to do?" he asked. "Sounds pretty damn impossible to me."

Natasha let out a long sigh through her nose. She glanced down, toying with the mandarin. Neither one of them had eaten a slice yet.

"I need to make something else more important."

"Like what?" Clint tilted his head, half-formed ideas of heists and grand pieces of art coming to mind. Instantly he felt the flickers of guilt—had he caused her to return to the life she hated, however briefly?—but he forced them away. She didn't have time for him to feel bad for either one of them.

Natasha met his eyes, expression set. "Like himself."

Clint blinked, leaning back a bit. "Are you…what're you saying?"

"If he's more worried about himself than that painting, I can get rid of it and then I'm not responsible."

"That sounds kinda thin to me, Nat," he said with a frown. "Guys like that, they're not gonna give up. If nothing else, he's gonna come back and make you suffer for what you've done. Didn't you say his life's on the line if he _doesn't_ get that painting back? So just get rid of the painting and let your old buyer take care of him."

"He's too smart," Natasha said grimly. "He'd find a way out. I _need_ someone to pursue him with all they have."

"But how're you going to do _that?"_ he asked.

Natasha watched him for a long moment and didn't say anything.

Clint sighed and shook his head. "Okay, then. What're we gonna do about me, then? I mean, I'm _still_ probably going to jail."

He sounded so resigned when he said it. Clint felt a slight kick in his chest at the thought, but he was too tired for actual fear. Natasha blinked in surprise, like she had forgotten that he was still responsible even though he had been tricked into going through with the crime.

"I'll—I'll cover that too," she said. "I know some people that'll help you with that."

"Who're these _people?_ " Clint asked, bracing his hands against the counter. She lifted her chin up defensively, and for the briefest moment she reminded him of when they had first met. Closed, standoffish, proud. Someone he found so intriguing because of her intense need to appear strong. Then the moment broke and she relaxed.

"I…they're people from when I was a criminal," she said softly. "There's at least one person that can help you."

"I need a drink," he mumbled, rubbing his hands against his eyes. When he looked up he found Natasha staring at him in question. He shook his head, a worn smile on his face. "Water. Just get me a water. Please."

Why had he gone and made things so _difficult_ between them?

They were both quiet as Natasha filled up a glass and placed it in front of him. He sipped from it, trying to think of what to do next. Clint looked at the slice of mandarin he had ignored and reluctantly put it in his mouth. It tasted too bright for the situation.

"I'm going to sit in the living room," Natasha told him. It was worded like a statement, but he heard the question anyway. _Do you want to join me?_

He sighed and nodded, sliding off the barstool and carrying his glass of water with him. Natasha sat on the couch, tucking her feet beneath her. Clint sat in his usual armchair. The air still felt thick between them.

He took another drink of water, then set it on the coffee table. Clint stared at his hands like he wasn't fully aware Natasha was watching him.

"Do you really think it would have been better if you had stayed in jail?"

"What?" He looked up at Natasha, surprised by her question. Her expression was serious, though, too focused on unraveling the problem to be self-conscious.

"Earlier today…you made it sound like it would have been better for the people around you if you stayed gone. Do you really believe that?"

"Yeah, sure," he mumbled, shifting and turning away from her. He was too worn down to hedge at this point. "I mean, I haven't exactly made stellar decisions so far. And when you found out about me…y'know, theft just didn't seem worth it. I tried to be good, I tried to squeeze by on my normal jobs, but I couldn't. And this isn't the first time it's happened. If I actually go to jail for once, it might make a difference."

"Have you ever been caught before?"

"Not like this. Been arrested before. I was a stupid kid. And a stupid adult."

Natasha's mouth tightened. "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Please…while you're here, don't talk bad about yourself."

Clint licked his lips but nodded. He could do that.

They were again quiet for a few moments, until Clint cleared his throat.

"Nat…how…what exactly are you planning on doing? I mean, you told me, but…are you sure you want to get into…something serious? You're going back to the people you _hate_ all because of me. I'm not…I'm not really okay with that."

"I don't hate _everyone_ from my old life," Natasha sighed, brushing her hair from her face. "It's only Demyan and the people like him. If I can get his attention off of me for a few moments, I can get rid of the painting. I know someone that can sell it, that's not an issue."

"Yeah, but _how_ are you gonna get his attention off you?" he asked, leaning forward. "What are you thinking of doing?"

Natasha glanced away. For the first time since Clint had walked through her door, she looked uncomfortable.

"I don't want to tell you, just in case," she whispered.

"Just in case _what?_ The hell are you planning?" His stomach flipped at all of the ugly possibilities. Natasha had made it clear she had run with some _bad_ people. Was she intending something as drastic as murder or was he letting himself think the worst of her?

"I…I don't know. I don't know what exactly will happen to Demyan. But I'm going to go to someone that…he might let me cash in on a favor. I don't know. I don't know if he'll want something in return. If he doesn't take care of Demyan, I'll have to think of something else, but I think he'll help me."

"But you're not sure. And you don't know what exactly he'll do."

"Yes."

" _Natasha_ ," he sighed.

He couldn't say much more. He didn't have the words to express his doubt or fears or worries. Natasha glanced away.

"What if he does want something?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if he _does_ want something from you to deal with your uncle? What's that gonna look like?"

Natasha kept his gaze, but he noticed the color drain from her face. "It could be anything. Money, a favor, art, me going to work for him."

"Work for him?"

"Anything sells in a con artist's world," she said grimly. "I'm talented, if rusty. He knows he could make a fortune off of me."

And she was willing to do that for Clint.

He watched her. He examined the neat, sleek edges of her clothes, the careful waves in her hair, the way her posture was open but small. She wasn't keeping anything from him. She wasn't trying to hide her fears or pretend to be confident or anything. She was letting him see all of her weakness and determination and flaws and she didn't care.

"Why're you doing this, Natasha?"

"I don't understand."

"Why're you willing to do all of this for me? Why _bother?_ I'm not—" He closed his eyes and dragged in a breath. He could say this. "I'm not…the kind of person you should spend time on. I'm a criminal, which is exactly what you ran away from. I'm a screw up, I can't stick to my word, I've got a whole _heap_ of baggage, and you…sometimes, when I look at you, it's just so _obvious_ how unmatched we are. I'm not saying you're perfect, but shit, Nat, you deserve someone who at least _looks_ like they've got things together."

She didn't seem upset like she had this morning. Natasha absorbed his self-criticisms with a closed off expression, but she waited until he was finished to respond.

"I don't think that."

Clint snorted. Of course that would be her answer, a whole page of reasons and pros and cons wrapped up in a few words.

"I think you're worth more than you do, and it's for good reason."

"Okay, sure, whatever your reasons for thinking I'm _not_ a waste of time, great. That's why you're dating me. But now…with me being arrested, prob'ly going to jail, your uncle using me against you…why bother? I know you said because he'd attack me either way, but Natasha, I can see it in your face. You're not here because you feel responsible. You're here 'cuz you _care,_ and that's not—why take me back? _Why,_ after everything, why're you taking me back?"

Natasha frowned, holding his gaze for another long moment. They didn't move, they barely breathed, they let her have all the time and space she needed to think.

"Because you make me happy."

Clint blinked at her. "I…don't understand."

"My life was horrible before," she said, still frowning in that serious, I-need-you-to-understand way. "Absolutely horrible. I didn't really realize, I thought that was normal. My parents died when I was young, but my father made Demyan swear he would take care of me. I don't even know if that's true, Clint. I barely remember them, but Demyan has always told me it was his obligation to my father. That it was because of that promise he had me go into crime. That I had to respect my father's memory by doing as Demyan said. That was my life."

"So—so what changed?"

"I grew up," she said simply. "I got older, we did bigger jobs, we made bigger profits, and it counted for nothing. Demyan only cared about the next thrill. I told myself I liked it, too. It made Demyan happy and the rush… _is_ fun. But not enough."

Clint shifted, almost uncomfortable at Natasha's easy answers. She had never told him this much. It was always bits and pieces, some here, some there, whatever she felt up to saying. And while Clint was hesitant to continue on for her sake, he also realized that she wasn't going to give up. Unless he decisively and brutally ended it right there, in that second, Natasha would not let things fade away.

"I didn't relate to anyone," Natasha continued. "I didn't have friends. I had people I worked with. Outside of Demyan, there really wasn't anyone else. There was my ex, but he was different. He was important, he helped me think for myself but…I don't know. We weren't with each other _for_ each other. It was only about ourselves. My life was cold, it was all business. Everyone I interacted with I was seeking an advantage over, I was always thinking of how to best them. And then I came here and I didn't know anyone, no one mattered…and then there was you."

"You make it sound so cut and dry," he said, forcing out a laugh to cover how uncomfortable he was.

"It is. Clint, I was here for _four years_ before I met you. Four years of being exactly what Demyan made me and knowing it and _hating_ it. And then you came and you were…" She shook her head and turned to stare out the window. "You don't know how glad I am to know you."

"Where is this coming from?" he asked, bracing his elbows on his knees. "I mean, I'm flattered, yeah, but this...you've never said anything like this before. Even this morning none of it was so… _thankful._ "

"After I came home…I realized that I might lose you," she told him. "To prison, to Demyan, to your own doubts. And I meant what I said, Clint. I'd walk through fire for you. I owe you _that much._ And even if we _don't_ work, I will always be glad for that. I want you to _know_ this before you make your choice."

"What choice are you leaving me?" he asked, again trying to laugh. It didn't come out right.

He ran his hands over his face. He made her happy. Natasha had said he was a 'lighter muse', but he'd never expected that to mean he personally made her feel _better._ But if he looked back, he could see the differences. Natasha had been crisp and withdrawn, barely allowing enough of herself to be shown for them to go on a date. And now she had stormed down to the police station to post bail and then talk sense into him. She had changed enough to fight for him.

Clint pressed a hand against his mouth. He didn't want to lose her, either. He wanted her so much that it felt hard to _breathe,_ but could he justify selfishly keeping her when it would only cause her harm?

Had it caused her harm? Was she right in saying her uncle would have targeted her through Clint any way he could? Was she right in saying Clint made her happy?

Was he right in thinking…that was enough?

"What're we gonna do, Natasha?" he whispered, eyes on the floor, hands against his face like the pressure would help anything.

"We're going to try as hard as we can."

"And…you've got a plan for Demyan?"

"Yes."

"And for—for me, for prison and…what if it doesn't _work?_ "

"We'll figure that out, too."

Clint clenched his teeth, terrified to accept, terrified to hand himself over to her and not hold his doubts and fears against his chest. But he made himself open his mouth, made himself say it.

"Okay. Okay. I trust you." He pushed himself to his feet and faced her. "Come here," he said, gesturing at her to get up as well.

Natasha stood up, uncertain but hopeful as she stepped toward him. Clint pulled her into a hug, holding her tight against his chest like he might fly apart if he let go. He was so afraid. He was genuinely and completely afraid of giving himself over and letting go of his own doubts. But he would do it. For Natasha, for someone that earnestly believed in him despite all his flaws and all of her own, he would do it. He owed her that much.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this. Look at this healthy relationship. Look at them addressing their problems without adding an extra twelve chapters of angst. Why can't we all do this? Why can't we be freed by healthy, mature relationships?


	16. make new friends, but keep the old

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, here we are, the penultimate chapter! The last chapter will probably be a little shorter, wrapping things up and the like, but wow, here we are! Please enjoy this chapter :)

Natasha making headway with Clint was enough to fill her chest with light. If things weren't still so complicated, she would have burst into laughter there in Clint's arms. She had done this for him and it was _working._ She didn't know selflessness could make her feel so wonderful.

Clint spent the day at her apartment. After they had decided on a plan (or rather, Clint accepted Natasha's help, as she was still very hesitant to detail what she planned to do), Natasha didn't think they used a full speaking voice. It was in nothing but gentle murmurs, slight shoulder touches, and soft brush strokes. Natasha liked the peace, even though it had been carved out of exhaustion.

"How do you know what to paint?" Clint asked at one point.

She glanced at him from her canvas board. He had settled on a stool to watch her paint. Natasha shrugged, turning back to the painting as she considered an answer.

"I don't know. I paint whatever feels interesting. Sometimes it's real life, sometimes it's in my head."

"Yeah, but like…how do you _know?_ I don't think I've seen you stumped for what to draw or something."

"Oh, it happens," Natasha laughed. She thought about mentioning that she had been blocked while he had been away, but she had the sneaking suspicion that would only make him feel worse. "A lot of the time I have a picture in my head, but it's only half-formed and I can't quite make it come out on the page."

"Yeah," Clint sighed, "I know what you mean."

Natasha pursed her lips, but didn't say anything. Bits and pieces, that was what this took. Clint had to heal on his own, just as Natasha had.

Clint was quiet again, but she heard him slide out of his chair. He pressed a kiss into the top of her head and walked to the kitchen. Natasha closed her eyes.

If only she could paint the feelings building in her chest. If she could have shown them to Clint, Natasha _knew_ that would have made things better.

"When are you gonna talk to your mystery guy?" Clint asked, walking back to her with a glass of water.

Natasha sighed and put down her paintbrush. She couldn't put this off. It wasn't like she didn't _know_ where to find help. He had been astonishingly easy to track down; a few calls and a promise or two had done the trick.

"Maybe tomorrow. I'm not sure."

"So what's the deal with him? How…" Clint chewed on the words for a second, trying to find the right one. "What's it gonna be like, if he asks you to stay?"

"Not bad. He's an old friend, actually, so it won't be like he's going to force me. It…just won't be ideal."

"D'you think you'll stay in New York?"

"I don't know. I met him in Russia, but he's here now, so…I hope so, but I can't guarantee."

"Alright." Clint sat back down on his stool, thinking over his next question as he took a sip of water. "So…what's the likelihood of us staying… _us?_ "

Natasha worked her jaw. That was the exact question she had hoped he wouldn't ask, and yet that was the one he probably _needed_ to ask the most. Even thinking about addressing it out loud made her want to burst into panicked laughter. There was _no way_ she had the strength to resign herself to that darkness yet again. And yet she knew she could do it, if she had to. If it was a choice between returning to crime or being hounded by Demyan for the rest of her life, she would always take crime. As long as it meant both she and Clint were safe.

She cleaned off her paint brush and faced Clint. "I don't think it's good."

It amazed Natasha how calm Clint stayed. All of his anger and confusion seemed to have burned away, leaving him even more open and exhausted than before. He watched her, face calm as he considered.

He nodded, then let out a slow sigh. "I still can't believe you're willing to throw _everything_ away for me."

"Not just you," she reminded. "Me, too."

He gave her a tired smile and shrugged. "Yeah, but I still feel like it's my fault. I wish…I wish there was something else we coulda done."

"We don't know if he'll ask me for certain," she reminded him (mostly because she needed to hear it again).

"Yeah, but just knowing it's a _possibility_ makes me sick. It sucks, it really does."

"I know."

"So who is he, then? How's _he_ the one that's gonna help us with your uncle?"

Natasha looked up at the ceiling. She could do this. She couldn't hedge this truth for forever.

"He's my ex," she told him. "I'm asking my ex for help."

Clint stared at her for a moment, blinking as he searched for something to say.

Natasha bit her cheek, then continued. "He's the only person willing to do me a favor now that I'm out. The only one powerful enough that I trust."

"Alright. What is he, another con artist?"

"He's with the mob."

"Oh, shit."

Natasha rubbed her wrist against her forehead, grimacing at the floor to keep from seeing Clint's face.

"That's…that makes a bit more sense, now. Uhm…you wanna give a little back story here?"

"I met him through Demyan," Natasha said, still staring at the floor. "He was a good friend to have. He hired us to do a job, then worked with us on another, and then…he just became part of my life."

"What's his name?" Clint asked, voice gentler, now.

"So obvious mafia crap aside, why…why're you so hesitant about him?"

"We left in…not the best circumstances."

"I thought you said you guys were okay."

"Okay, yes. But…he didn't exactly approve of me leaving. I told him I was going minutes before I actually left. He didn't have a say."

"So—"

"So I _left!_ " Natasha snapped. "I ran away from him as much as my old life! I have no idea how he feels about me now, I have no idea if he hates me or loves me or what. I don't—I'm scared to face him after hurting him so much."

Clint let out a slow sigh through his nose, his head cocked off to the side. "I don't know what to tell you," he admitted. "I just…I want you to be happy, Tasha."

She shook her head. "I don't think it's that easy."

"Probably not," he said. Clint slid off his stool and set his water down on the seat. He crossed the few steps between them, arms opening as he came closer to Natasha. "But I still want it. And if there's anything I can do, I'll do it."

Natasha leaned against his side. She closed her eyes, imagining she was soaking up the last little bits of his goodness she could. If she had _any_ idea how James might react, angry, jealous, merciful…anything would have been better than this uncertainty.

"Will you come see me before I go tomorrow? You don't have to come with me to see him, but just…come see me."

"Yeah, Tasha, of course," Clint said. She wrapped her arms around him, wishing she could express how safe he made her feel.

* * *

Natasha barely slept that night. She tossed and turned and dreaded the day to come. She didn't want to see James. She didn't want to return to her life of crime, in any capacity. But if dipping into her past for a few short moments meant possibly ridding herself of it for forever…

But what if it _wasn't_ ridding herself of it? That was what terrified her more than anything. What if James selfishly demanded one favor for another, required that she stay with him? He liked winning. He liked devastating his opponents when they made him mad. Would she count as the opposition?

Natasha wished Clint was there.

In the morning, Natasha looked horrible. There were bags under her eyes that simultaneously made her appear older, but also hailed back to when she was young. She had spent too many long nights planning and practicing, honing her skills under Demyan's razor expectations or James' tantalizing attention.

She sighed and carefully covered the dark smudges with concealer.

Clint knocked on her door in the middle of the morning. She let him in, greeting him with another firm hug. He didn't hesitate to return it this time, wrapping her up in his arms. Natasha leaned into his chest, thankful that he was there, despite the faint smell of cigarettes.

"Are you nervous?" he murmured, earning a half-hearted shrug. Clint huffed out a laugh, but didn't push.

They spent most of the morning sitting together on the couch. Natasha curled up against his side and watched him play on his phone. At least she was able to choose how this moment went. If things didn't turn out right, this could be the last time they saw each other. If things didn't turn out right, she wanted to be able to remember how simple and wonderful things were with Clint.

Eventually, he put his phone away and looked at her. She stared pointedly at his knee, terrified to let this end.

"Natasha," he said gently, "when do you need to leave?"

"Probably soon."

"Okay." He was quiet for a moment, then asked, "How do you want to do this? Do you want to meet up after to tell me how things are?"

Natasha held her breath. If things went wrong, she didn't want to see Clint. She wanted this to be it, their last moment consisting of happiness and guileless perfection. She didn't want it to be tears and a good-bye. But that wasn't fair, to run away without telling Clint _anything._

"How about…how about I call you after?"

He watched her, then gave a slow nod. She slid off the couch and smoothed her shirt. Clint heaved himself to his feet, then kissed her forehead.

"Knock 'em dead, Tasha," he whispered, and walked with her all the way to the street.

* * *

Natasha took a train out to Brighton Beach. She held her hands in her lap and tried to breathe through the anxiety. She was numb when she stepped off the train. Her life was going to change no matter what happened. Natasha would take it in stride when it did.

The auto shop James had directed her to was a little worn down building with a rusting sign in Cyrillic. Her stomach tightened at the familiar call from her past, but Natasha made herself let out a long, slow breath. She wasn't just doing this for her. She was also doing it for Clint.

Several of the mechanics eyed her, but she didn't let them bother her. She kept her shoulders level and refused to smooth her hands over her pants. She couldn't look nervous. She wasn't nervous. She was curious, that was all.

She walked to the office, breathing level, heart steady, eyes searching for James.

He hadn't changed. His hair was a little shorter and the clothes were new, but he was the exact same. The icy fire he held under his skin couldn't be smothered by a change in looks and a new country. He was speaking to someone, the strong curves of his jaw and chin as familiar as ever. His welcoming smile was enough to make her chest ache.

" _Natalia,_ " he said, striding around the counter to pull her into a tight hug. Natasha closed her eyes as he kissed her neck, insides flipping. His touch made her long for the home she had made in his arms.

No. The memory of his touch was what she found herself craving, the faded impression of a safety that no one could take away.

"James," she sighed, her smile more than a little heartbroken. She was sad she had lost that bit of comfort, if only for its own sake. "How have you been?"

"Great. Your accent's fantastic!" he said, pulling back to stare at her with delighted surprise. She broke into another smile and glanced at the ground. They used to spend long hours together, him tutoring her in English as they prepared for the next in an endless stream of cons. "You practically sound native."

"That was the hope," she said, putting her hands in her pockets.

"Here, let's talk," James told her, turning and ushering her toward the back office.

It was neat and simple, the plain furniture a little too washed out to be James' choice. She wondered if he even worked here, or if the auto shop was merely a convenient front. She could practically _feel_ the Bratva oozing through the walls.

" _So_ ," James said, closing the door and then sitting on the desk. The Russian slipped beautifully from his lips, comforting in all the ways it hadn't been with Demyan. " _What have you been doing in America?_ "

" _Painting—ah, framing mostly, but I still paint,"_ she said, trying to force out a smile through her anxiety. James leaned back on the desk, graciously ignoring her fumble. His smile was genuine, nothing but complete delight at her being there.

" _Has your style changed at all?"_ he asked.

" _Yes. It's a little more refined. I'm adding in some of the finer details."_

 _"_ 'Finer details'," he scoffed. " _That implies you actually_ had _fine details to begin with."_

She mock-grimaced at him and let herself relax a little. James watched her, head tilted to the side. His voice was softer when he spoke.

" _You look well, Natalia. I always thought America would agree with you, but it's wonderful to actually see it. How long have you been here?"_

_"A few years."_

He nodded, gaze traveling over her again. " _I came back this year. Russia is fine, full of good connections, but_ New York _…"_ He shook his head. " _It will always be home."_

She gave a thin smile, remembering the countless times he had talked about his childhood in Brooklyn. Natasha blinked. She didn't know what had happened to him between those incandescent years as a child and her meeting him. Her gap in knowledge felt strange all of a sudden.

" _But,_ " he said, clapping his hands and sliding off the desk, _"we're together now. I knew you couldn't stay away from this life, you loved the thrill too much. And it hasn't been the same without you, Natalia."_

James crossed over to her and put a hand on her cheek. Natasha kept her slight smile up, fighting the tightening knot in her stomach. They were together now. She couldn't stay away. So he _was_ expecting things to go back to the way they were, bounding across the globe and committing crime after crime with no cares in the world.

He spoke with his hands as he turned away. James' collar pulled down on the left just enough to show the scars stretching up his collar bone. She snapped her eyes away, stomach churning even more. He had nearly lost his arm on a job before Natasha met him, though she had resisted the urge to ask exactly what had happened. Natasha had forgotten how violent the life had been. The blood and pain had been washed away by the romance of holding million dollar paintings and one-of-a-kind statues.

" _On the phone you mentioned you needed help,"_ James continued _. "Name it and it's yours. Passports, identity, a new mark, a new friend…anything."_

_"I need you to take care of Demyan."_

James paused at the other end of the small office. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, his profile unusually harsh in the light of the window. He considered her for a long moment, jaw working as he thought.

" _How do you mean?"_

_"You know exactly what I mean."_

_"What has he done?"_ James asked, facing her completely. " _He's always been a bastard, but you've never said anything about revenge before."_

Natasha licked her lips. James had named his price for help, she had named what kind of help she needed. There was no point in hesitating now.

_"He found me. He wants the Vereshchagin and I can't let him have it."_

_"So you still have it,"_ James said. His head bobbed slightly, as though she had just confirmed his suspicions.

" _I thought I would be fine. He should have never made it out of that job alive, the buyer should have torn him to_ pieces _when he didn't produce the painting,_ " she spat, still bitter over Demyan's vicious good luck.

 _"But he made it out."_ James sighed through his nose. Those words summed up so much. He glanced up at the ceiling, shaking his head.

" _Would you like something to drink?"_ he asked suddenly, gesturing at the cabinet he had stopped beside. Natasha raised an eyebrow as he opened the door to reveal a couple of bottles.

 _"You're not going to offer me bourbon, I hope,_ " she said, needing some levity when things looked so black.

Natasha still smiled when she remembered the first time he had offered her bourbon instead of vodka. James fit into each country he lived in like it was his own skin. Russia, Italy, Chile, Nigeria, it didn't matter where he went, he could pass himself off as a native with confidence alone. Except for some habits—those were unbreakably American.

"Hell _no,_ " he laughed. " _Vodka only passes those lips, this I remember."_

She smiled as he poured her some, then walked over and took the glass. She knocked it back, the familiar burn giving her strength.

" _Normally, I would have ignored Demyan, but…"_

_"What does he have on you?"_

Natasha couldn't say what it was, but something about James' face closed off, became that much colder. She swallowed. When they were talking like this, she managed to forget that he was dangerous, that he had winter itself wrapped around his bones. But sometimes it would flash out, the smallest, slightest warning before a devastating blizzard.

" _Threats, mostly. He's been watching me for a while, so he could know anything. But I_ refuse _to let him hurt the people I care about._ "

And just like that, just as fast as it took James to harden, the ice was gone. He watched her, blinking a couple of times. He glanced at his feet, and Natasha watched him in confusion for a second—

_Hurt the people I care about._

She was so used to caring about people that she hadn't thought twice about saying it aloud. When James had known her, she never would have admitted that. It would have been a secret she took to her grave, concealing the potential weakness for her own sake. She cursed herself for getting comfortable, insides constricting that much tighter as she scanned his face for clues.

James looked up at her, smile flashing across his face. " _You know, I always wanted you to complete all your goals, but I never realized where that would put me."_

" _James, I—"_

_"You don't want to leave them, yes?"_

_"I—what?"_

_"You never were coming_ back _to me, were you?"_

Natasha licked her lips, then nodded.

James laughed and shook his head. " _That was arrogant."_

 _"_ James," she began, stomach disappearing all together. Would he not help her, had everything been dependent on whether or not she would stay with him?

But he raised a hand toward her, that slight smile still on his face. " _Not you, Natalia. That was arrogant of_ me _. I never even asked why you were coming to me."_

_"Because I need help and I don't trust anyone else."_

_"What has Demyan done?"_

_"He…has endangered one of my friends. They're probably going to go to jail because of Demyan, and I can't stand by and let him_ do _that to people. Not anymore."_

James nodded and looked out the window. _"So you want me to help for the sake of your friends?"_

_"Yes."_

_"And if I said the price_ was _coming back?"_ he asked, still fixated on the window.

Natasha's stomach dropped away, but she kept her voice steady. _"Then I would do it."_

James' eyes snapped back to her. " _Even though you obviously don't want to? Even though you fought so hard to get out?"_

_"Your way of things is much better than Demyan's. I could live with it."_

_"I don't want you to just_ live, _Natasha."_

Natasha stared at the floor. She focused on breathing slow, on keeping her heartbeats measured. She was so _close._

 _"You've always been the selfless one,"_ James said unexpectedly. She glanced up at him in question. " _I've always admired that. I only take what I want, I don't think about others. But you…"_

 _"I_ left _you,"_ Natasha said, shaking her head. _"I left without even telling you until I was on the_ boat. _That's not selfless."_

_"No. That's taking care of yourself. And that's something that we all need to do, from time to time."_

_"What are you saying, James?"_

He just smiled and shook his head. He walked to his desk and grabbed a pen, scribbling down some notes. " _I'll take care of Demyan for you, something I owe you for not doing it earlier. But, Natasha?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"It's going to be permanent."_ The cold fire in his eyes said that it couldn't be anything but, after all Demyan had done to her.

Natasha set her jaw and nodded.

_"Alright. And your friend, the one that might be going to prison, what's their name?"_

_"Why?"_

_"I'm going to get them out."_

_"_ No, _James, we're not doing this through the Bratva. I'm not—"_

 _"No worries,"_ he said, shooting her a grin. _"I'm getting them a lawyer. I know some clean ones, they're not all sharks hired for the Bratva. There's a firm in Hell's Kitchen, a couple of good men that want to save the city. What your friend's name?"_

_"Clint Barton."_

_"Alright,"_ he said. He wrote the name of the law firm down, then folded the paper and handed it to her. " _That should be all you need._ "

" _James…why? Why are you doing this? You don't owe me_ this _much."_

He shrugged and looked at the window again. _"I found Steve._ "

_"Steve? Your friend from when you were a kid?"_

_"Yes. He's a painter, now,"_ James said, giving her a nervous smile. _"And I thought…we've only started speaking for the first time in years. And if someone tried to take him away because of what I do, because of my past…I'd burn this city down to keep them from doing it. I think you'd do the same for your friend, if you're coming to me."_

Natasha let out a slow breath, then gave her first real smile of the day. " _No, James. It's because I trust you more than anyone else in the life._ "

He gave her a grin and touched her cheek again. " _Stay safe, Natasha. And don't be a stranger."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay but who was actually surprised natasha's ex was bucky.


	17. all's well that ends well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am delighted to be able to say that we have reached the last chapter. I have loved writing this story and exploring this world without compromise Clint and Natasha's happiness/health for development. It's been absolutely wonderful, and I've adored sharing every minute with you. And thank you to all of my lovely betas on the Beta Branch, you are fantastic and helped me push this story to its maximum potential :)
> 
> Please enjoy the epilogue of _saved from something like regret._

"I'm not sure how I feel about aiding and abetting a criminal, "Clint told Natasha. She rolled her eyes and nudged him with her hip. He stumbled and almost tripped over an elderly couple sitting on the grass, then gave her a scandalized look.

"It's not _aiding and abetting,_ " she said, primly adjusting her sunhat.

"Uh, _totally_ is. You _conned_ that guy into giving you the last caramel apple. Theft happened before my eyes. I'm in legal hot water, you can't pull crap like that in front of me."

"I didn't even lie. I _did_ forget my wallet. With you. While you were buying the drinks."

" _Shameless,_ " he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. They paused as a herd of kids ran past, shrieking as they played tag.

They were in Central Park for some carnival hosted by the technology big wig, Tony Stark. Apparently, the whole thing was to bring public awareness to the abundance and efficiency of green energy, but she and Clint were honestly there for the performers. Barney's family had even driven up, making a proper event of the day.

Clint swapped Natasha's caramel apple for a frozen lemonade. He took an enormous bite out of it, eyes on a performer juggling on stilts.

"Criticizing her technique?" Natasha asked.

"A little bit."

"I'm sure if you showed off your skills, you'd get a crowd," Natasha said.

"Yeah. Tony Stark will hear about the guy showing up his lackeys, then he'll hire me on sight. I can quit all my odd jobs and be made for life."

In the month since his arrest, Clint had stayed true to his word. He actively sought employment and distanced himself from his criminal contacts. He worked with the lawyers James had directed them to, allowing Nelson and Murdock to create a reasonable defense to lessen his charges. Clint, being Clint, had made friends with the two men instantly, which Natasha couldn't say was a bad thing. She and Clint both needed a few more upstanding acquaintances, and Foggy and Matt fit the bill perfectly (plus it was always good to have a few lawyers in their back corner).

Clint's efforts even extended to accepting and appreciating himself. Natasha hadn't expected an instant transformation, but she reveled in every little triumph he made. Every day grew Clint's faith in himself. With Natasha's help, he began to finally believe that he was not so broken as to be beyond loving.

Natasha was also making a point of correcting her past behavior. She sold the Vereshchagin immediately and cut all ties with the criminal life (except for James. If nothing else, he had proved that he truly cared about her). Honesty was still difficult for her, but she was trying. Real progress had been made when she realized it wasn't about telling a lie or telling the truth, it was more about being open. She lowered her walls and handed out smiles and meant them because she finally, _finally_ wanted to connect with people.

Barney waved at them from the spot his family had eked out on the grass. He was sitting in a camping chair, while Sharon sat on their picnic blanket and blew bubbles.

"You guys find elephant ears?" Barney asked.

"No, but they had funnel cakes," Clint said, handing one over.

" _Poser_ cakes, more like," he grumbled. He still took a huge bite, a trait he seemed to share with his brother.

"I think there's supposed to be some dancers performing in a little bit," Sharon said. "Ballet, I think? Something fancy from one of the performance schools."

"I used to do ballet," Natasha mused.

Barney stared at her for a moment, expression serious. Then he turned to Clint and asked, "Is there anything she _doesn't_ do?"

"Yodel," Clint said, taking another bite out of Natasha's apple.

Natasha rolled her eyes at them, smothering a smile. The day was warm and a bit breezy, swirling through the happy crowd and raising everyone's already high spirits. She leaned against Clint, sipping on her lemonade.

When she had been with Demyan, she hadn't thought days like this existed. Everything had been cold, clinical, ruthless. It was either running a job or practicing for one, lying and tricking and stealing. In the end, she guessed that was what made Demyan one of the greatest conmen that she'd ever known; he'd made her believe this kind of happiness was impossible. For her, at least. She had always thought she'd have to settle for some fake approximation of the real thing, resigned to marble and a chisel over flesh and a hug, deceit over truth, cynicism over love.

That was gone, now. Less than a week after she had spoken to James, he had sent her a fruit basket. It had had little American flags in it, as well as a card that said ' _Welcome to America. Stay as long as you like and enjoy yourself. You deserve it.'_ She had set the card down, knowing somehow that it was done. Her uncle was gone. However James had managed it (and she knew, really, as ugly as it was), Demyan would _never_ bother her again. She probably should have felt something over it, but Natasha just felt empty. Then again, Demyan had always left her cold. That was part of why she had fled to New York in the first place.

Tyler ran over for a drink, then slid to a stop in front of Natasha.

"Natasha, Natasha, can you paint my face now?"

"Kid, we just sat down," Clint grumbled, but Natasha laughed.

"The kit's in my bag," she told him. Tyler bounced away, searching for her bag amidst everyone's things.

"He's like the damn Energizer Bunny," Clint mumbled into her neck. Natasha smiled and rested her head against his before taking a bite out of her caramel apple.

"Don't eat all of that before I finish. I worked hard to get it," she told him, earning a hearty snort.

Natasha smiled as Tyler plunked down in front of her, chattering about her giving him a tiger face.

She had thought days like this had been impossible. And they had, once. Even a few months ago, Natasha had considered them a laughable dream. But now Natasha knew she didn't just have _days_ of happiness ahead of her. Now, if she made use of the amazing second chance she had been given, she had a whole life to look forward to.


End file.
